CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
VOL. II.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
VOL. III.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
VOL. I.
INTRODUCTION.
I visited Naples in the year 1818. On the 8th of December of that year,
my companion and I crossed the Bay, to visit the antiquities which are
scattered on the shores of Baiæ. The translucent and shining waters of
the calm sea covered fragments of old Roman villas, which were
interlaced by sea-weed, and received diamond tints from the chequering
of the sun-beams; the blue and pellucid element was such as Galatea
might have skimmed in her car of mother of pearl; or Cleopatra, more
fitly than the Nile, have chosen as the path of her magic ship. Though
it was winter, the atmosphere seemed more appropriate to early spring;
and its genial warmth contributed to inspire those sensations of placid
delight, which are the portion of every traveller, as he lingers, loath
to quit the tranquil bays and radiant promontories of Baiæ.
We visited the so called Elysian Fields and Avernus; and wandered
through various ruined temples, baths, and classic spots; at length we
entered the gloomy cavern of the Cumæan Sibyl. Our Lazzeroni bore
flaring torches, which shone red, and almost dusky, in the murky
subterranean passages, whose darkness thirstily surrounding them,
seemed eager to imbibe more and more of the element of light. We passed
by a natural archway, leading to a second gallery, and enquired, if we
could not enter there also. The guides pointed to the reflection of
their torches on the water that paved it, leaving us to form our own
conclusion; but adding it was a pity, for it led to the Sibyl’s Cave.
Our curiosity and enthusiasm were excited by this circumstance, and we
insisted upon attempting the passage. As is usually the case in the
prosecution of such enterprizes, the difficulties decreased on
examination. We found, on each side of the humid pathway, “dry land for
the sole of the foot.” At length we arrived at a large, desert, dark
cavern, which the Lazzeroni assured us was the Sibyl’s Cave. We were
sufficiently disappointed—Yet we examined it with care, as if its
blank, rocky walls could still bear trace of celestial visitant. On one
side was a small opening. Whither does this lead? we asked: can we
enter here?—“_Questo poi, no,_”—said the wild looking savage, who held
the torch; “you can advance but a short distance, and nobody visits
it.”
“Nevertheless, I will try it,” said my companion; “it may lead to the
real cavern. Shall I go alone, or will you accompany me?”
I signified my readiness to proceed, but our guides protested against
such a measure. With great volubility, in their native Neapolitan
dialect, with which we were not very familiar, they told us that there
were spectres, that the roof would fall in, that it was too narrow to
admit us, that there was a deep hole within, filled with water, and we
might be drowned. My friend shortened the harangue, by taking the man’s
torch from him; and we proceeded alone.
The passage, which at first scarcely admitted us, quickly grew narrower
and lower; we were almost bent double; yet still we persisted in making
our way through it. At length we entered a wider space, and the low
roof heightened; but, as we congratulated ourselves on this change, our
torch was extinguished by a current of air, and we were left in utter
darkness. The guides bring with them materials for renewing the light,
but we had none—our only resource was to return as we came. We groped
round the widened space to find the entrance, and after a time fancied
that we had succeeded. This proved however to be a second passage,
which evidently ascended. It terminated like the former; though
something approaching to a ray, we could not tell whence, shed a very
doubtful twilight in the space. By degrees, our eyes grew somewhat
accustomed to this dimness, and we perceived that there was no direct
passage leading us further; but that it was possible to climb one side
of the cavern to a low arch at top, which promised a more easy path,
from whence we now discovered that this light proceeded. With
considerable difficulty we scrambled up, and came to another passage
with still more of illumination, and this led to another ascent like
the former.
After a succession of these, which our resolution alone permitted us to
surmount, we arrived at a wide cavern with an arched dome-like roof. An
aperture in the midst let in the light of heaven; but this was
overgrown with brambles and underwood, which acted as a veil, obscuring
the day, and giving a solemn religious hue to the apartment. It was
spacious, and nearly circular, with a raised seat of stone, about the
size of a Grecian couch, at one end. The only sign that life had been
here, was the perfect snow-white skeleton of a goat, which had probably
not perceived the opening as it grazed on the hill above, and had
fallen headlong. Ages perhaps had elapsed since this catastrophe; and
the ruin it had made above, had been repaired by the growth of
vegetation during many hundred summers.
The rest of the furniture of the cavern consisted of piles of leaves,
fragments of bark, and a white filmy substance, resembling the inner
part of the green hood which shelters the grain of the unripe Indian
corn. We were fatigued by our struggles to attain this point, and
seated ourselves on the rocky couch, while the sounds of tinkling
sheep-bells, and shout of shepherd-boy, reached us from above.
At length my friend, who had taken up some of the leaves strewed about,
exclaimed, “This _is_ the Sibyl’s cave; these are Sibylline leaves.” On
examination, we found that all the leaves, bark, and other substances,
were traced with written characters. What appeared to us more
astonishing, was that these writings were expressed in various
languages: some unknown to my companion, ancient Chaldee, and Egyptian
hieroglyphics, old as the Pyramids. Stranger still, some were in modern
dialects, English and Italian. We could make out little by the dim
light, but they seemed to contain prophecies, detailed relations of
events but lately passed; names, now well known, but of modern date;
and often exclamations of exultation or woe, of victory or defeat, were
traced on their thin scant pages. This was certainly the Sibyl’s Cave;
not indeed exactly as Virgil describes it; but the whole of this land
had been so convulsed by earthquake and volcano, that the change was
not wonderful, though the traces of ruin were effaced by time; and we
probably owed the preservation of these leaves, to the accident which
had closed the mouth of the cavern, and the swift-growing vegetation
which had rendered its sole opening impervious to the storm. We made a
hasty selection of such of the leaves, whose writing one at least of us
could understand; and then, laden with our treasure, we bade adieu to
the dim hypæthric cavern, and after much difficulty succeeded in
rejoining our guides.
During our stay at Naples, we often returned to this cave, sometimes
alone, skimming the sun-lit sea, and each time added to our store.
Since that period, whenever the world’s circumstance has not
imperiously called me away, or the temper of my mind impeded such
study, I have been employed in deciphering these sacred remains. Their
meaning, wondrous and eloquent, has often repaid my toil, soothing me
in sorrow, and exciting my imagination to daring flights, through the
immensity of nature and the mind of man. For awhile my labours were not
solitary; but that time is gone; and, with the selected and matchless
companion of my toils, their dearest reward is also lost to me—
Di mie tenere frondi altro lavoro
Credea mostrarte; e qual fero pianeta
Ne’ nvidiò insieme, o mio nobil tesoro?
I present the public with my latest discoveries in the slight Sibylline
pages. Scattered and unconnected as they were, I have been obliged to
add links, and model the work into a consistent form. But the main
substance rests on the truths contained in these poetic rhapsodies, and
the divine intuition which the Cumæan damsel obtained from heaven.
I have often wondered at the subject of her verses, and at the English
dress of the Latin poet. Sometimes I have thought, that, obscure and
chaotic as they are, they owe their present form to me, their
decipherer. As if we should give to another artist, the painted
fragments which form the mosaic copy of Raphael’s Transfiguration in
St. Peter’s; he would put them together in a form, whose mode would be
fashioned by his own peculiar mind and talent. Doubtless the leaves of
the Cumæan Sibyl have suffered distortion and diminution of interest
and excellence in my hands. My only excuse for thus transforming them,
is that they were unintelligible in their pristine condition.
My labours have cheered long hours of solitude, and taken me out of a
world, which has averted its once benignant face from me, to one
glowing with imagination and power. Will my readers ask how I could
find solace from the narration of misery and woeful change? This is one
of the mysteries of our nature, which holds full sway over me, and from
whose influence I cannot escape. I confess, that I have not been
unmoved by the development of the tale; and that I have been depressed,
nay, agonized, at some parts of the recital, which I have faithfully
transcribed from my materials. Yet such is human nature, that the
excitement of mind was dear to me, and that the imagination, painter of
tempest and earthquake, or, worse, the stormy and ruin-fraught passions
of man, softened my real sorrows and endless regrets, by clothing these
fictitious ones in that ideality, which takes the mortal sting from
pain.
I hardly know whether this apology is necessary. For the merits of my
adaptation and translation must decide how far I have well bestowed my
time and imperfect powers, in giving form and substance to the frail
and attenuated Leaves of the Sibyl.
CHAPTER I.
I am the native of a sea-surrounded nook, a cloud-enshadowed land,
which, when the surface of the globe, with its shoreless ocean and
trackless continents, presents itself to my mind, appears only as an
inconsiderable speck in the immense whole; and yet, when balanced in
the scale of mental power, far outweighed countries of larger extent
and more numerous population. So true it is, that man’s mind alone was
the creator of all that was good or great to man, and that Nature
herself was only his first minister. England, seated far north in the
turbid sea, now visits my dreams in the semblance of a vast and
well-manned ship, which mastered the winds and rode proudly over the
waves. In my boyish days she was the universe to me. When I stood on my
native hills, and saw plain and mountain stretch out to the utmost
limits of my vision, speckled by the dwellings of my countrymen, and
subdued to fertility by their labours, the earth’s very centre was
fixed for me in that spot, and the rest of her orb was as a fable, to
have forgotten which would have cost neither my imagination nor
understanding an effort.
My fortunes have been, from the beginning, an exemplification of the
power that mutability may possess over the varied tenor of man’s life.
With regard to myself, this came almost by inheritance. My father was
one of those men on whom nature had bestowed to prodigality the envied
gifts of wit and imagination, and then left his bark of life to be
impelled by these winds, without adding reason as the rudder, or
judgment as the pilot for the voyage. His extraction was obscure; but
circumstances brought him early into public notice, and his small
paternal property was soon dissipated in the splendid scene of fashion
and luxury in which he was an actor. During the short years of
thoughtless youth, he was adored by the high-bred triflers of the day,
nor least by the youthful sovereign, who escaped from the intrigues of
party, and the arduous duties of kingly business, to find never-failing
amusement and exhilaration of spirit in his society. My father’s
impulses, never under his own controul, perpetually led him into
difficulties from which his ingenuity alone could extricate him; and
the accumulating pile of debts of honour and of trade, which would have
bent to earth any other, was supported by him with a light spirit and
tameless hilarity; while his company was so necessary at the tables and
assemblies of the rich, that his derelictions were considered venial,
and he himself received with intoxicating flattery.
This kind of popularity, like every other, is evanescent: and the
difficulties of every kind with which he had to contend, increased in a
frightful ratio compared with his small means of extricating himself.
At such times the king, in his enthusiasm for him, would come to his
relief, and then kindly take his friend to task; my father gave the
best promises for amendment, but his social disposition, his craving
for the usual diet of admiration, and more than all, the fiend of
gambling, which fully possessed him, made his good resolutions
transient, his promises vain. With the quick sensibility peculiar to
his temperament, he perceived his power in the brilliant circle to be
on the wane. The king married; and the haughty princess of Austria, who
became, as queen of England, the head of fashion, looked with harsh
eyes on his defects, and with contempt on the affection her royal
husband entertained for him. My father felt that his fall was near; but
so far from profiting by this last calm before the storm to save
himself, he sought to forget anticipated evil by making still greater
sacrifices to the deity of pleasure, deceitful and cruel arbiter of his
destiny.
The king, who was a man of excellent dispositions, but easily led, had
now become a willing disciple of his imperious consort. He was induced
to look with extreme disapprobation, and at last with distaste, on my
father’s imprudence and follies. It is true that his presence
dissipated these clouds; his warm-hearted frankness, brilliant sallies,
and confiding demeanour were irresistible: it was only when at a
distance, while still renewed tales of his errors were poured into his
royal friend’s ear, that he lost his influence. The queen’s dextrous
management was employed to prolong these absences, and gather together
accusations. At length the king was brought to see in him a source of
perpetual disquiet, knowing that he should pay for the short-lived
pleasure of his society by tedious homilies, and more painful
narrations of excesses, the truth of which he could not disprove. The
result was, that he would make one more attempt to reclaim him, and in
case of ill success, cast him off for ever.
Such a scene must have been one of deepest interest and high-wrought
passion. A powerful king, conspicuous for a goodness which had
heretofore made him meek, and now lofty in his admonitions, with
alternate entreaty and reproof, besought his friend to attend to his
real interests, resolutely to avoid those fascinations which in fact
were fast deserting him, and to spend his great powers on a worthy
field, in which he, his sovereign, would be his prop, his stay, and his
pioneer. My father felt this kindness; for a moment ambitious dreams
floated before him; and he thought that it would be well to exchange
his present pursuits for nobler duties. With sincerity and fervour he
gave the required promise: as a pledge of continued favour, he received
from his royal master a sum of money to defray pressing debts, and
enable him to enter under good auspices his new career. That very
night, while yet full of gratitude and good resolves, this whole sum,
and its amount doubled, was lost at the gaming-table. In his desire to
repair his first losses, my father risked double stakes, and thus
incurred a debt of honour he was wholly unable to pay. Ashamed to apply
again to the king, he turned his back upon London, its false delights
and clinging miseries; and, with poverty for his sole companion, buried
himself in solitude among the hills and lakes of Cumberland. His wit,
his bon mots, the record of his personal attractions, fascinating
manners, and social talents, were long remembered and repeated from
mouth to mouth. Ask where now was this favourite of fashion, this
companion of the noble, this excelling beam, which gilt with alien
splendour the assemblies of the courtly and the gay—you heard that he
was under a cloud, a lost man; not one thought it belonged to him to
repay pleasure by real services, or that his long reign of brilliant
wit deserved a pension on retiring. The king lamented his absence; he
loved to repeat his sayings, relate the adventures they had had
together, and exalt his talents—but here ended his reminiscence.
Meanwhile my father, forgotten, could not forget. He repined for the
loss of what was more necessary to him than air or food—the excitements
of pleasure, the admiration of the noble, the luxurious and polished
living of the great. A nervous fever was the consequence; during which
he was nursed by the daughter of a poor cottager, under whose roof he
lodged. She was lovely, gentle, and, above all, kind to him; nor can it
afford astonishment, that the late idol of high-bred beauty should,
even in a fallen state, appear a being of an elevated and wondrous
nature to the lowly cottage-girl. The attachment between them led to
the ill-fated marriage, of which I was the offspring. Notwithstanding
the tenderness and sweetness of my mother, her husband still deplored
his degraded state. Unaccustomed to industry, he knew not in what way
to contribute to the support of his increasing family. Sometimes he
thought of applying to the king; pride and shame for a while withheld
him; and, before his necessities became so imperious as to compel him
to some kind of exertion, he died. For one brief interval before this
catastrophe, he looked forward to the future, and contemplated with
anguish the desolate situation in which his wife and children would be
left. His last effort was a letter to the king, full of touching
eloquence, and of occasional flashes of that brilliant spirit which was
an integral part of him. He bequeathed his widow and orphans to the
friendship of his royal master, and felt satisfied that, by this means,
their prosperity was better assured in his death than in his life. This
letter was enclosed to the care of a nobleman, who, he did not doubt,
would perform the last and inexpensive office of placing it in the
king’s own hand.
He died in debt, and his little property was seized immediately by his
creditors. My mother, pennyless and burthened with two children, waited
week after week, and month after month, in sickening expectation of a
reply, which never came. She had no experience beyond her father’s
cottage; and the mansion of the lord of the manor was the chiefest type
of grandeur she could conceive. During my father’s life, she had been
made familiar with the name of royalty and the courtly circle; but such
things, ill according with her personal experience, appeared, after the
loss of him who gave substance and reality to them, vague and
fantastical. If, under any circumstances, she could have acquired
sufficient courage to address the noble persons mentioned by her
husband, the ill success of his own application caused her to banish
the idea. She saw therefore no escape from dire penury: perpetual care,
joined to sorrow for the loss of the wondrous being, whom she continued
to contemplate with ardent admiration, hard labour, and naturally
delicate health, at length released her from the sad continuity of want
and misery.
The condition of her orphan children was peculiarly desolate. Her own
father had been an emigrant from another part of the country, and had
died long since: they had no one relation to take them by the hand;
they were outcasts, paupers, unfriended beings, to whom the most scanty
pittance was a matter of favour, and who were treated merely as
children of peasants, yet poorer than the poorest, who, dying, had left
them, a thankless bequest, to the close-handed charity of the land.
I, the elder of the two, was five years old when my mother died. A
remembrance of the discourses of my parents, and the communications
which my mother endeavoured to impress upon me concerning my father’s
friends, in slight hope that I might one day derive benefit from the
knowledge, floated like an indistinct dream through my brain. I
conceived that I was different and superior to my protectors and
companions, but I knew not how or wherefore. The sense of injury,
associated with the name of king and noble, clung to me; but I could
draw no conclusions from such feelings, to serve as a guide to action.
My first real knowledge of myself was as an unprotected orphan among
the valleys and fells of Cumberland. I was in the service of a farmer;
and with crook in hand, my dog at my side, I shepherded a numerous
flock on the near uplands. I cannot say much in praise of such a life;
and its pains far exceeded its pleasures. There was freedom in it, a
companionship with nature, and a reckless loneliness; but these,
romantic as they were, did not accord with the love of action and
desire of human sympathy, characteristic of youth. Neither the care of
my flock, nor the change of seasons, were sufficient to tame my eager
spirit; my out-door life and unemployed time were the temptations that
led me early into lawless habits. I associated with others friendless
like myself; I formed them into a band, I was their chief and captain.
All shepherd-boys alike, while our flocks were spread over the
pastures, we schemed and executed many a mischievous prank, which drew
on us the anger and revenge of the rustics. I was the leader and
protector of my comrades, and as I became distinguished among them,
their misdeeds were usually visited upon me. But while I endured
punishment and pain in their defence with the spirit of an hero, I
claimed as my reward their praise and obedience.
In such a school my disposition became rugged, but firm. The appetite
for admiration and small capacity for self-controul which I inherited
from my father, nursed by adversity, made me daring and reckless. I was
rough as the elements, and unlearned as the animals I tended. I often
compared myself to them, and finding that my chief superiority
consisted in power, I soon persuaded myself that it was in power only
that I was inferior to the chiefest potentates of the earth. Thus
untaught in refined philosophy, and pursued by a restless feeling of
degradation from my true station in society, I wandered among the hills
of civilized England as uncouth a savage as the wolf-bred founder of
old Rome. I owned but one law, it was that of the strongest, and my
greatest deed of virtue was never to submit.
Yet let me a little retract from this sentence I have passed on myself.
My mother, when dying, had, in addition to her other half-forgotten and
misapplied lessons, committed, with solemn exhortation, her other child
to my fraternal guardianship; and this one duty I performed to the best
of my ability, with all the zeal and affection of which my nature was
capable. My sister was three years younger than myself; I had nursed
her as an infant, and when the difference of our sexes, by giving us
various occupations, in a great measure divided us, yet she continued
to be the object of my careful love. Orphans, in the fullest sense of
the term, we were poorest among the poor, and despised among the
unhonoured. If my daring and courage obtained for me a kind of
respectful aversion, her youth and sex, since they did not excite
tenderness, by proving her to be weak, were the causes of numberless
mortifications to her; and her own disposition was not so constituted
as to diminish the evil effects of her lowly station.
She was a singular being, and, like me, inherited much of the peculiar
disposition of our father. Her countenance was all expression; her eyes
were not dark, but impenetrably deep; you seemed to discover space
after space in their intellectual glance, and to feel that the soul
which was their soul, comprehended an universe of thought in its ken.
She was pale and fair, and her golden hair clustered on her temples,
contrasting its rich hue with the living marble beneath. Her coarse
peasant-dress, little consonant apparently with the refinement of
feeling which her face expressed, yet in a strange manner accorded with
it. She was like one of Guido’s saints, with heaven in her heart and in
her look, so that when you saw her you only thought of that within, and
costume and even feature were secondary to the mind that beamed in her
countenance.
Yet though lovely and full of noble feeling, my poor Perdita (for this
was the fanciful name my sister had received from her dying parent),
was not altogether saintly in her disposition. Her manners were cold
and repulsive. If she had been nurtured by those who had regarded her
with affection, she might have been different; but unloved and
neglected, she repaid want of kindness with distrust and silence. She
was submissive to those who held authority over her, but a perpetual
cloud dwelt on her brow; she looked as if she expected enmity from
every one who approached her, and her actions were instigated by the
same feeling. All the time she could command she spent in solitude. She
would ramble to the most unfrequented places, and scale dangerous
heights, that in those unvisited spots she might wrap herself in
loneliness. Often she passed whole hours walking up and down the paths
of the woods; she wove garlands of flowers and ivy, or watched the
flickering of the shadows and glancing of the leaves; sometimes she sat
beside a stream, and as her thoughts paused, threw flowers or pebbles
into the waters, watching how those swam and these sank; or she would
set afloat boats formed of bark of trees or leaves, with a feather for
a sail, and intensely watch the navigation of her craft among the
rapids and shallows of the brook. Meanwhile her active fancy wove a
thousand combinations; she dreamt “of moving accidents by flood and
field”—she lost herself delightedly in these self-created wanderings,
and returned with unwilling spirit to the dull detail of common life.
Poverty was the cloud that veiled her excellencies, and all that was
good in her seemed about to perish from want of the genial dew of
affection. She had not even the same advantage as I in the recollection
of her parents; she clung to me, her brother, as her only friend, but
her alliance with me completed the distaste that her protectors felt
for her; and every error was magnified by them into crimes. If she had
been bred in that sphere of life to which by inheritance the delicate
framework of her mind and person was adapted, she would have been the
object almost of adoration, for her virtues were as eminent as her
defects. All the genius that ennobled the blood of her father
illustrated hers; a generous tide flowed in her veins; artifice, envy,
or meanness, were at the antipodes of her nature; her countenance, when
enlightened by amiable feeling, might have belonged to a queen of
nations; her eyes were bright; her look fearless.
Although by our situation and dispositions we were almost equally cut
off from the usual forms of social intercourse, we formed a strong
contrast to each other. I always required the stimulants of
companionship and applause. Perdita was all-sufficient to herself.
Notwithstanding my lawless habits, my disposition was sociable, hers
recluse. My life was spent among tangible realities, hers was a dream.
I might be said even to love my enemies, since by exciting me they in a
sort bestowed happiness upon me; Perdita almost disliked her friends,
for they interfered with her visionary moods. All my feelings, even of
exultation and triumph, were changed to bitterness, if unparticipated;
Perdita, even in joy, fled to loneliness, and could go on from day to
day, neither expressing her emotions, nor seeking a fellow-feeling in
another mind. Nay, she could love and dwell with tenderness on the look
and voice of her friend, while her demeanour expressed the coldest
reserve. A sensation with her became a sentiment, and she never spoke
until she had mingled her perceptions of outward objects with others
which were the native growth of her own mind. She was like a fruitful
soil that imbibed the airs and dews of heaven, and gave them forth
again to light in loveliest forms of fruits and flowers; but then she
was often dark and rugged as that soil, raked up, and new sown with
unseen seed.
She dwelt in a cottage whose trim grass-plat sloped down to the waters
of the lake of Ulswater; a beech wood stretched up the hill behind, and
a purling brook gently falling from the acclivity ran through
poplar-shaded banks into the lake. I lived with a farmer whose house
was built higher up among the hills: a dark crag rose behind it, and,
exposed to the north, the snow lay in its crevices the summer through.
Before dawn I led my flock to the sheep-walks, and guarded them through
the day. It was a life of toil; for rain and cold were more frequent
than sunshine; but it was my pride to contemn the elements. My trusty
dog watched the sheep as I slipped away to the rendezvous of my
comrades, and thence to the accomplishment of our schemes. At noon we
met again, and we threw away in contempt our peasant fare, as we built
our fire-place and kindled the cheering blaze destined to cook the game
stolen from the neighbouring preserves. Then came the tale of
hair-breadth escapes, combats with dogs, ambush and flight, as
gipsey-like we encompassed our pot. The search after a stray lamb, or
the devices by which we elude or endeavoured to elude punishment,
filled up the hours of afternoon; in the evening my flock went to its
fold, and I to my sister.
It was seldom indeed that we escaped, to use an old-fashioned phrase,
scot free. Our dainty fare was often exchanged for blows and
imprisonment. Once, when thirteen years of age, I was sent for a month
to the county jail. I came out, my morals unimproved, my hatred to my
oppressors encreased tenfold. Bread and water did not tame my blood,
nor solitary confinement inspire me with gentle thoughts. I was angry,
impatient, miserable; my only happy hours were those during which I
devised schemes of revenge; these were perfected in my forced solitude,
so that during the whole of the following season, and I was freed early
in September, I never failed to provide excellent and plenteous fare
for myself and my comrades. This was a glorious winter. The sharp frost
and heavy snows tamed the animals, and kept the country gentlemen by
their firesides; we got more game than we could eat, and my faithful
dog grew sleek upon our refuse.
Thus years passed on; and years only added fresh love of freedom, and
contempt for all that was not as wild and rude as myself. At the age of
sixteen I had shot up in appearance to man’s estate; I was tall and
athletic; I was practised to feats of strength, and inured to the
inclemency of the elements. My skin was embrowned by the sun; my step
was firm with conscious power. I feared no man, and loved none. In
after life I looked back with wonder to what I then was; how utterly
worthless I should have become if I had pursued my lawless career. My
life was like that of an animal, and my mind was in danger of
degenerating into that which informs brute nature. Until now, my savage
habits had done me no radical mischief; my physical powers had grown up
and flourished under their influence, and my mind, undergoing the same
discipline, was imbued with all the hardy virtues. But now my boasted
independence was daily instigating me to acts of tyranny, and freedom
was becoming licentiousness. I stood on the brink of manhood; passions,
strong as the trees of a forest, had already taken root within me, and
were about to shadow with their noxious overgrowth, my path of life.
I panted for enterprises beyond my childish exploits, and formed
distempered dreams of future action. I avoided my ancient comrades, and
I soon lost them. They arrived at the age when they were sent to fulfil
their destined situations in life; while I, an outcast, with none to
lead or drive me forward, paused. The old began to point at me as an
example, the young to wonder at me as a being distinct from themselves;
I hated them, and began, last and worst degradation, to hate myself. I
clung to my ferocious habits, yet half despised them; I continued my
war against civilization, and yet entertained a wish to belong to it.
I revolved again and again all that I remembered my mother to have told
me of my father’s former life; I contemplated the few relics I
possessed belonging to him, which spoke of greater refinement than
could be found among the mountain cottages; but nothing in all this
served as a guide to lead me to another and pleasanter way of life. My
father had been connected with nobles, but all I knew of such
connection was subsequent neglect. The name of the king,—he to whom my
dying father had addressed his latest prayers, and who had barbarously
slighted them, was associated only with the ideas of unkindness,
injustice, and consequent resentment. I was born for something greater
than I was—and greater I would become; but greatness, at least to my
distorted perceptions, was no necessary associate of goodness, and my
wild thoughts were unchecked by moral considerations when they rioted
in dreams of distinction. Thus I stood upon a pinnacle, a sea of evil
rolled at my feet; I was about to precipitate myself into it, and rush
like a torrent over all obstructions to the object of my wishes— when a
stranger influence came over the current of my fortunes, and changed
their boisterous course to what was in comparison like the gentle
meanderings of a meadow-encircling streamlet.
CHAPTER II.
I lived far from the busy haunts of men, and the rumour of wars or
political changes came worn to a mere sound, to our mountain abodes.
England had been the scene of momentous struggles, during my early
boyhood. In the year 2073, the last of its kings, the ancient friend of
my father, had abdicated in compliance with the gentle force of the
remonstrances of his subjects, and a republic was instituted. Large
estates were secured to the dethroned monarch and his family; he
received the title of Earl of Windsor, and Windsor Castle, an ancient
royalty, with its wide demesnes were a part of his allotted wealth. He
died soon after, leaving two children, a son and a daughter.
The ex-queen, a princess of the house of Austria, had long impelled her
husband to withstand the necessity of the times. She was haughty and
fearless; she cherished a love of power, and a bitter contempt for him
who had despoiled himself of a kingdom. For her children’s sake alone
she consented to remain, shorn of regality, a member of the English
republic. When she became a widow, she turned all her thoughts to the
educating her son Adrian, second Earl of Windsor, so as to accomplish
her ambitious ends; and with his mother’s milk he imbibed, and was
intended to grow up in the steady purpose of re-acquiring his lost
crown. Adrian was now fifteen years of age. He was addicted to study,
and imbued beyond his years with learning and talent: report said that
he had already begun to thwart his mother’s views, and to entertain
republican principles. However this might be, the haughty Countess
entrusted none with the secrets of her family-tuition. Adrian was bred
up in solitude, and kept apart from the natural companions of his age
and rank. Some unknown circumstance now induced his mother to send him
from under her immediate tutelage; and we heard that he was about to
visit Cumberland. A thousand tales were rife, explanatory of the
Countess of Windsor’s conduct; none true probably; but each day it
became more certain that we should have the noble scion of the late
regal house of England among us.
There was a large estate with a mansion attached to it, belonging to
this family, at Ulswater. A large park was one of its appendages, laid
out with great taste, and plentifully stocked with game. I had often
made depredations on these preserves; and the neglected state of the
property facilitated my incursions. When it was decided that the young
Earl of Windsor should visit Cumberland, workmen arrived to put the
house and grounds in order for his reception. The apartments were
restored to their pristine splendour, and the park, all disrepairs
restored, was guarded with unusual care.
I was beyond measure disturbed by this intelligence. It roused all my
dormant recollections, my suspended sentiments of injury, and gave rise
to the new one of revenge. I could no longer attend to my occupations;
all my plans and devices were forgotten; I seemed about to begin life
anew, and that under no good auspices. The tug of war, I thought, was
now to begin. He would come triumphantly to the district to which my
parent had fled broken-hearted; he would find the ill-fated offspring,
bequeathed with such vain confidence to his royal father, miserable
paupers. That he should know of our existence, and treat us, near at
hand, with the same contumely which his father had practised in
distance and absence, appeared to me the certain consequence of all
that had gone before. Thus then I should meet this titled stripling—the
son of my father’s friend. He would be hedged in by servants; nobles,
and the sons of nobles, were his companions; all England rang with his
name; and his coming, like a thunderstorm, was heard from far: while I,
unlettered and unfashioned, should, if I came in contact with him, in
the judgment of his courtly followers, bear evidence in my very person
to the propriety of that ingratitude which had made me the degraded
being I appeared.
With my mind fully occupied by these ideas, I might be said as if
fascinated, to haunt the destined abode of the young Earl. I watched
the progress of the improvements, and stood by the unlading waggons, as
various articles of luxury, brought from London, were taken forth and
conveyed into the mansion. It was part of the Ex-Queen’s plan, to
surround her son with princely magnificence. I beheld rich carpets and
silken hangings, ornaments of gold, richly embossed metals, emblazoned
furniture, and all the appendages of high rank arranged, so that
nothing but what was regal in splendour should reach the eye of one of
royal descent. I looked on these; I turned my gaze to my own mean
dress.—Whence sprung this difference? Whence but from ingratitude, from
falsehood, from a dereliction on the part of the prince’s father, of
all noble sympathy and generous feeling. Doubtless, he also, whose
blood received a mingling tide from his proud mother—he, the
acknowledged focus of the kingdom’s wealth and nobility, had been
taught to repeat my father’s name with disdain, and to scoff at my just
claims to protection. I strove to think that all this grandeur was but
more glaring infamy, and that, by planting his gold-enwoven flag beside
my tarnished and tattered banner, he proclaimed not his superiority,
but his debasement. Yet I envied him. His stud of beautiful horses, his
arms of costly workmanship, the praise that attended him, the
adoration, ready servitor, high place and high esteem,—I considered
them as forcibly wrenched from me, and envied them all with novel and
tormenting bitterness.
To crown my vexation of spirit, Perdita, the visionary Perdita, seemed
to awake to real life with transport, when she told me that the Earl of
Windsor was about to arrive.
“And this pleases you?” I observed, moodily.
“Indeed it does, Lionel,” she replied; “I quite long to see him; he is
the descendant of our kings, the first noble of the land: every one
admires and loves him, and they say that his rank is his least merit;
he is generous, brave, and affable.”
“You have learnt a pretty lesson, Perdita,” said I, “and repeat it so
literally, that you forget the while the proofs we have of the Earl’s
virtues; his generosity to us is manifest in our plenty, his bravery in
the protection he affords us, his affability in the notice he takes of
us. His rank his least merit, do you say? Why, all his virtues are
derived from his station only; because he is rich, he is called
generous; because he is powerful, brave; because he is well served, he
is affable. Let them call him so, let all England believe him to be
thus—we know him—he is our enemy—our penurious, dastardly, arrogant
enemy; if he were gifted with one particle of the virtues you call his,
he would do justly by us, if it were only to shew, that if he must
strike, it should not be a fallen foe. His father injured my father—his
father, unassailable on his throne, dared despise him who only stooped
beneath himself, when he deigned to associate with the royal ingrate.
We, descendants from the one and the other, must be enemies also. He
shall find that I can feel my injuries; he shall learn to dread my
revenge!”
A few days after he arrived. Every inhabitant of the most miserable
cottage, went to swell the stream of population that poured forth to
meet him: even Perdita, in spite of my late philippic, crept near the
highway, to behold this idol of all hearts. I, driven half mad, as I
met party after party of the country people, in their holiday best,
descending the hills, escaped to their cloud-veiled summits, and
looking on the sterile rocks about me, exclaimed—“_They_ do not cry,
long live the Earl!” Nor, when night came, accompanied by drizzling
rain and cold, would I return home; for I knew that each cottage rang
with the praises of Adrian; as I felt my limbs grow numb and chill, my
pain served as food for my insane aversion; nay, I almost triumphed in
it, since it seemed to afford me reason and excuse for my hatred of my
unheeding adversary. All was attributed to him, for I confounded so
entirely the idea of father and son, that I forgot that the latter
might be wholly unconscious of his parent’s neglect of us; and as I
struck my aching head with my hand, I cried: “He shall hear of this! I
will be revenged! I will not suffer like a spaniel! He shall know,
beggar and friendless as I am, that I will not tamely submit to
injury!” Each day, each hour added to these exaggerated wrongs. His
praises were so many adder’s stings infixed in my vulnerable breast. If
I saw him at a distance, riding a beautiful horse, my blood boiled with
rage; the air seemed poisoned by his presence, and my very native
English was changed to a vile jargon, since every phrase I heard was
coupled with his name and honour. I panted to relieve this painful
heart-burning by some misdeed that should rouse him to a sense of my
antipathy. It was the height of his offending, that he should occasion
in me such intolerable sensations, and not deign himself to afford any
demonstration that he was aware that I even lived to feel them.
It soon became known that Adrian took great delight in his park and
preserves. He never sported, but spent hours in watching the tribes of
lovely and almost tame animals with which it was stocked, and ordered
that greater care should be taken of them than ever. Here was an
opening for my plans of offence, and I made use of it with all the
brute impetuosity I derived from my active mode of life. I proposed the
enterprize of poaching on his demesne to my few remaining comrades, who
were the most determined and lawless of the crew; but they all shrunk
from the peril; so I was left to achieve my revenge myself. At first my
exploits were unperceived; I increased in daring; footsteps on the dewy
grass, torn boughs, and marks of slaughter, at length betrayed me to
the game-keepers. They kept better watch; I was taken, and sent to
prison. I entered its gloomy walls in a fit of triumphant extasy: “He
feels me now,” I cried, “and shall, again and again!”—I passed but one
day in confinement; in the evening I was liberated, as I was told, by
the order of the Earl himself. This news precipitated me from my
self-raised pinnacle of honour. He despises me, I thought; but he shall
learn that I despise him, and hold in equal contempt his punishments
and his clemency. On the second night after my release, I was again
taken by the gamekeepers—again imprisoned, and again released; and
again, such was my pertinacity, did the fourth night find me in the
forbidden park. The gamekeepers were more enraged than their lord by my
obstinacy. They had received orders that if I were again taken, I
should be brought to the Earl; and his lenity made them expect a
conclusion which they considered ill befitting my crime. One of them,
who had been from the first the leader among those who had seized me,
resolved to satisfy his own resentment, before he made me over to the
higher powers.
The late setting of the moon, and the extreme caution I was obliged to
use in this my third expedition, consumed so much time, that something
like a qualm of fear came over me when I perceived dark night yield to
twilight. I crept along by the fern, on my hands and knees, seeking the
shadowy coverts of the underwood, while the birds awoke with unwelcome
song above, and the fresh morning wind, playing among the boughs, made
me suspect a footfall at each turn. My heart beat quick as I approached
the palings; my hand was on one of them, a leap would take me to the
other side, when two keepers sprang from an ambush upon me: one knocked
me down, and proceeded to inflict a severe horse-whipping. I started
up—a knife was in my grasp; I made a plunge at his raised right arm,
and inflicted a deep, wide wound in his hand. The rage and yells of the
wounded man, the howling execrations of his comrade, which I answered
with equal bitterness and fury, echoed through the dell; morning broke
more and more, ill accordant in its celestial beauty with our brute and
noisy contest. I and my enemy were still struggling, when the wounded
man exclaimed, “The Earl!” I sprang out of the herculean hold of the
keeper, panting from my exertions; I cast furious glances on my
persecutors, and placing myself with my back to a tree, resolved to
defend myself to the last. My garments were torn, and they, as well as
my hands, were stained with the blood of the man I had wounded; one
hand grasped the dead birds—my hard-earned prey, the other held the
knife; my hair was matted; my face besmeared with the same guilty signs
that bore witness against me on the dripping instrument I clenched; my
whole appearance was haggard and squalid. Tall and muscular as I was in
form, I must have looked like, what indeed I was, the merest ruffian
that ever trod the earth.
The name of the Earl startled me, and caused all the indignant blood
that warmed my heart to rush into my cheeks; I had never seen him
before; I figured to myself a haughty, assuming youth, who would take
me to task, if he deigned to speak to me, with all the arrogance of
superiority. My reply was ready; a reproach I deemed calculated to
sting his very heart. He came up the while; and his appearance blew
aside, with gentle western breath, my cloudy wrath: a tall, slim, fair
boy, with a physiognomy expressive of the excess of sensibility and
refinement stood before me; the morning sunbeams tinged with gold his
silken hair, and spread light and glory over his beaming countenance.
“How is this?” he cried. The men eagerly began their defence; he put
them aside, saying, “Two of you at once on a mere lad— for shame!” He
came up to me: “Verney,” he cried, “Lionel Verney, do we meet thus for
the first time? We were born to be friends to each other; and though
ill fortune has divided us, will you not acknowledge the hereditary
bond of friendship which I trust will hereafter unite us?”
As he spoke, his earnest eyes, fixed on me, seemed to read my very
soul: my heart, my savage revengeful heart, felt the influence of sweet
benignity sink upon it; while his thrilling voice, like sweetest
melody, awoke a mute echo within me, stirring to its depths the
life-blood in my frame. I desired to reply, to acknowledge his
goodness, accept his proffered friendship; but words, fitting words,
were not afforded to the rough mountaineer; I would have held out my
hand, but its guilty stain restrained me. Adrian took pity on my
faltering mien: “Come with me,” he said, “I have much to say to you;
come home with me—you know who I am?”
“Yes,” I exclaimed, “I do believe that I now know you, and that you
will pardon my mistakes—my crime.”
Adrian smiled gently; and after giving his orders to the gamekeepers,
he came up to me; putting his arm in mine, we walked together to the
mansion.
It was not his rank—after all that I have said, surely it will not be
suspected that it was Adrian’s rank, that, from the first, subdued my
heart of hearts, and laid my entire spirit prostrate before him. Nor
was it I alone who felt thus intimately his perfections. His
sensibility and courtesy fascinated every one. His vivacity,
intelligence, and active spirit of benevolence, completed the conquest.
Even at this early age, he was deep read and imbued with the spirit of
high philosophy. This spirit gave a tone of irresistible persuasion to
his intercourse with others, so that he seemed like an inspired
musician, who struck, with unerring skill, the “lyre of mind,” and
produced thence divine harmony. In person, he hardly appeared of this
world; his slight frame was overinformed by the soul that dwelt within;
he was all mind; “Man but a rush against” his breast, and it would have
conquered his strength; but the might of his smile would have tamed an
hungry lion, or caused a legion of armed men to lay their weapons at
his feet.
I spent the day with him. At first he did not recur to the past, or
indeed to any personal occurrences. He wished probably to inspire me
with confidence, and give me time to gather together my scattered
thoughts. He talked of general subjects, and gave me ideas I had never
before conceived. We sat in his library, and he spoke of the old Greek
sages, and of the power which they had acquired over the minds of men,
through the force of love and wisdom only. The room was decorated with
the busts of many of them, and he described their characters to me. As
he spoke, I felt subject to him; and all my boasted pride and strength
were subdued by the honeyed accents of this blue-eyed boy. The trim and
paled demesne of civilization, which I had before regarded from my wild
jungle as inaccessible, had its wicket opened by him; I stepped within,
and felt, as I entered, that I trod my native soil.
As evening came on, he reverted to the past. “I have a tale to relate,”
he said, “and much explanation to give concerning the past; perhaps you
can assist me to curtail it. Do you remember your father? I had never
the happiness of seeing him, but his name is one of my earliest
recollections: he stands written in my mind’s tablets as the type of
all that was gallant, amiable, and fascinating in man. His wit was not
more conspicuous than the overflowing goodness of his heart, which he
poured in such full measure on his friends, as to leave, alas! small
remnant for himself.”
Encouraged by this encomium, I proceeded, in answer to his inquiries,
to relate what I remembered of my parent; and he gave an account of
those circumstances which had brought about a neglect of my father’s
testamentary letter. When, in after times, Adrian’s father, then king
of England, felt his situation become more perilous, his line of
conduct more embarrassed, again and again he wished for his early
friend, who might stand a mound against the impetuous anger of his
queen, a mediator between him and the parliament. From the time that he
had quitted London, on the fatal night of his defeat at the
gaming-table, the king had received no tidings concerning him; and
when, after the lapse of years, he exerted himself to discover him,
every trace was lost. With fonder regret than ever, he clung to his
memory; and gave it in charge to his son, if ever he should meet this
valued friend, in his name to bestow every succour, and to assure him
that, to the last, his attachment survived separation and silence.
A short time before Adrian’s visit to Cumberland, the heir of the
nobleman to whom my father had confided his last appeal to his royal
master, put this letter, its seal unbroken, into the young Earl’s
hands. It had been found cast aside with a mass of papers of old date,
and accident alone brought it to light. Adrian read it with deep
interest; and found there that living spirit of genius and wit he had
so often heard commemorated. He discovered the name of the spot whither
my father had retreated, and where he died; he learnt the existence of
his orphan children; and during the short interval between his arrival
at Ulswater and our meeting in the park, he had been occupied in making
inquiries concerning us, and arranging a variety of plans for our
benefit, preliminary to his introducing himself to our notice.
The mode in which he spoke of my father was gratifying to my vanity;
the veil which he delicately cast over his benevolence, in alledging a
duteous fulfilment of the king’s latest will, was soothing to my pride.
Other feelings, less ambiguous, were called into play by his
conciliating manner and the generous warmth of his expressions, respect
rarely before experienced, admiration, and love—he had touched my rocky
heart with his magic power, and the stream of affection gushed forth,
imperishable and pure. In the evening we parted; he pressed my hand:
“We shall meet again; come to me to-morrow.” I clasped that kind hand;
I tried to answer; a fervent “God bless you!” was all my ignorance
could frame of speech, and I darted away, oppressed by my new emotions.
I could not rest. I sought the hills; a west wind swept them, and the
stars glittered above. I ran on, careless of outward objects, but
trying to master the struggling spirit within me by means of bodily
fatigue. “This,” I thought, “is power! Not to be strong of limb, hard
of heart, ferocious, and daring; but kind, compassionate and
soft.”—Stopping short, I clasped my hands, and with the fervour of a
new proselyte, cried, “Doubt me not, Adrian, I also will become wise
and good!” and then quite overcome, I wept aloud.
As this gust of passion passed from me, I felt more composed. I lay on
the ground, and giving the reins to my thoughts, repassed in my mind my
former life; and began, fold by fold, to unwind the many errors of my
heart, and to discover how brutish, savage, and worthless I had
hitherto been. I could not however at that time feel remorse, for
methought I was born anew; my soul threw off the burthen of past sin,
to commence a new career in innocence and love. Nothing harsh or rough
remained to jar with the soft feelings which the transactions of the
day had inspired; I was as a child lisping its devotions after its
mother, and my plastic soul was remoulded by a master hand, which I
neither desired nor was able to resist.
This was the first commencement of my friendship with Adrian, and I
must commemorate this day as the most fortunate of my life. I now began
to be human. I was admitted within that sacred boundary which divides
the intellectual and moral nature of man from that which characterizes
animals. My best feelings were called into play to give fitting
responses to the generosity, wisdom, and amenity of my new friend. He,
with a noble goodness all his own, took infinite delight in bestowing
to prodigality the treasures of his mind and fortune on the
long-neglected son of his father’s friend, the offspring of that gifted
being whose excellencies and talents he had heard commemorated from
infancy.
After his abdication the late king had retreated from the sphere of
politics, yet his domestic circle afforded him small content. The
ex-queen had none of the virtues of domestic life, and those of courage
and daring which she possessed were rendered null by the secession of
her husband: she despised him, and did not care to conceal her
sentiments. The king had, in compliance with her exactions, cast off
his old friends, but he had acquired no new ones under her guidance. In
this dearth of sympathy, he had recourse to his almost infant son; and
the early development of talent and sensibility rendered Adrian no
unfitting depository of his father’s confidence. He was never weary of
listening to the latter’s often repeated accounts of old times, in
which my father had played a distinguished part; his keen remarks were
repeated to the boy, and remembered by him; his wit, his fascinations,
his very faults were hallowed by the regret of affection; his loss was
sincerely deplored. Even the queen’s dislike of the favourite was
ineffectual to deprive him of his son’s admiration: it was bitter,
sarcastic, contemptuous—but as she bestowed her heavy censure alike on
his virtues as his errors, on his devoted friendship and his
ill-bestowed loves, on his disinterestedness and his prodigality, on
his pre-possessing grace of manner, and the facility with which he
yielded to temptation, her double shot proved too heavy, and fell short
of the mark. Nor did her angry dislike prevent Adrian from imaging my
father, as he had said, the type of all that was gallant, amiable, and
fascinating in man. It was not strange therefore, that when he heard of
the existence of the offspring of this celebrated person, he should
have formed the plan of bestowing on them all the advantages his rank
made him rich to afford. When he found me a vagabond shepherd of the
hills, a poacher, an unlettered savage, still his kindness did not
fail. In addition to the opinion he entertained that his father was to
a degree culpable of neglect towards us, and that he was bound to every
possible reparation, he was pleased to say that under all my ruggedness
there glimmered forth an elevation of spirit, which could be
distinguished from mere animal courage, and that I inherited a
similarity of countenance to my father, which gave proof that all his
virtues and talents had not died with him. Whatever those might be
which descended to me, my noble young friend resolved should not be
lost for want of culture.
Acting upon this plan in our subsequent intercourse, he led me to wish
to participate in that cultivation which graced his own intellect. My
active mind, when once it seized upon this new idea, fastened on it
with extreme avidity. At first it was the great object of my ambition
to rival the merits of my father, and render myself worthy of the
friendship of Adrian. But curiosity soon awoke, and an earnest love of
knowledge, which caused me to pass days and nights in reading and
study. I was already well acquainted with what I may term the panorama
of nature, the change of seasons, and the various appearances of heaven
and earth. But I was at once startled and enchanted by my sudden
extension of vision, when the curtain, which had been drawn before the
intellectual world, was withdrawn, and I saw the universe, not only as
it presented itself to my outward senses, but as it had appeared to the
wisest among men. Poetry and its creations, philosophy and its
researches and classifications, alike awoke the sleeping ideas in my
mind, and gave me new ones.
I felt as the sailor, who from the topmast first discovered the shore
of America; and like him I hastened to tell my companions of my
discoveries in unknown regions. But I was unable to excite in any
breast the same craving appetite for knowledge that existed in mine.
Even Perdita was unable to understand me. I had lived in what is
generally called the world of reality, and it was awakening to a new
country to find that there was a deeper meaning in all I saw, besides
that which my eyes conveyed to me. The visionary Perdita beheld in all
this only a new gloss upon an old reading, and her own was sufficiently
inexhaustible to content her. She listened to me as she had done to the
narration of my adventures, and sometimes took an interest in this
species of information; but she did not, as I did, look on it as an
integral part of her being, which having obtained, I could no more put
off than the universal sense of touch.
We both agreed in loving Adrian: although she not having yet escaped
from childhood could not appreciate as I did the extent of his merits,
or feel the same sympathy in his pursuits and opinions. I was for ever
with him. There was a sensibility and sweetness in his disposition,
that gave a tender and unearthly tone to our converse. Then he was gay
as a lark carolling from its skiey tower, soaring in thought as an
eagle, innocent as the mild-eyed dove. He could dispel the seriousness
of Perdita, and take the sting from the torturing activity of my
nature. I looked back to my restless desires and painful struggles with
my fellow beings as to a troubled dream, and felt myself as much
changed as if I had transmigrated into another form, whose fresh
sensorium and mechanism of nerves had altered the reflection of the
apparent universe in the mirror of mind. But it was not so; I was the
same in strength, in earnest craving for sympathy, in my yearning for
active exertion. My manly virtues did not desert me, for the witch
Urania spared the locks of Sampson, while he reposed at her feet; but
all was softened and humanized. Nor did Adrian instruct me only in the
cold truths of history and philosophy. At the same time that he taught
me by their means to subdue my own reckless and uncultured spirit, he
opened to my view the living page of his own heart, and gave me to feel
and understand its wondrous character.
The ex-queen of England had, even during infancy, endeavoured to
implant daring and ambitious designs in the mind of her son. She saw
that he was endowed with genius and surpassing talent; these she
cultivated for the sake of afterwards using them for the furtherance of
her own views. She encouraged his craving for knowledge and his
impetuous courage; she even tolerated his tameless love of freedom,
under the hope that this would, as is too often the case, lead to a
passion for command. She endeavoured to bring him up in a sense of
resentment towards, and a desire to revenge himself upon, those who had
been instrumental in bringing about his father’s abdication. In this
she did not succeed. The accounts furnished him, however distorted, of
a great and wise nation asserting its right to govern itself, excited
his admiration: in early days he became a republican from principle.
Still his mother did not despair. To the love of rule and haughty pride
of birth she added determined ambition, patience, and self-control. She
devoted herself to the study of her son’s disposition. By the
application of praise, censure, and exhortation, she tried to seek and
strike the fitting chords; and though the melody that followed her
touch seemed discord to her, she built her hopes on his talents, and
felt sure that she would at last win him. The kind of banishment he now
experienced arose from other causes.
The ex-queen had also a daughter, now twelve years of age; his fairy
sister, Adrian was wont to call her; a lovely, animated, little thing,
all sensibility and truth. With these, her children, the noble widow
constantly resided at Windsor; and admitted no visitors, except her own
partizans, travellers from her native Germany, and a few of the foreign
ministers. Among these, and highly distinguished by her, was Prince
Zaimi, ambassador to England from the free States of Greece; and his
daughter, the young Princess Evadne, passed much of her time at Windsor
Castle. In company with this sprightly and clever Greek girl, the
Countess would relax from her usual state. Her views with regard to her
own children, placed all her words and actions relative to _them_ under
restraint: but Evadne was a plaything she could in no way fear; nor
were her talents and vivacity slight alleviations to the monotony of
the Countess’s life.
Evadne was eighteen years of age. Although they spent much time
together at Windsor, the extreme youth of Adrian prevented any
suspicion as to the nature of their intercourse. But he was ardent and
tender of heart beyond the common nature of man, and had already learnt
to love, while the beauteous Greek smiled benignantly on the boy. It
was strange to me, who, though older than Adrian, had never loved, to
witness the whole heart’s sacrifice of my friend. There was neither
jealousy, inquietude, or mistrust in his sentiment; it was devotion and
faith. His life was swallowed up in the existence of his beloved; and
his heart beat only in unison with the pulsations that vivified hers.
This was the secret law of his life—he loved and was beloved. The
universe was to him a dwelling, to inhabit with his chosen one; and not
either a scheme of society or an enchainment of events, that could
impart to him either happiness or misery. What, though life and the
system of social intercourse were a wilderness, a tiger-haunted jungle!
Through the midst of its errors, in the depths of its savage recesses,
there was a disentangled and flowery pathway, through which they might
journey in safety and delight. Their track would be like the passage of
the Red Sea, which they might traverse with unwet feet, though a wall
of destruction were impending on either side.
Alas! why must I record the hapless delusion of this matchless specimen
of humanity? What is there in our nature that is for ever urging us on
towards pain and misery? We are not formed for enjoyment; and, however
we may be attuned to the reception of pleasureable emotion,
disappointment is the never-failing pilot of our life’s bark, and
ruthlessly carries us on to the shoals. Who was better framed than this
highly-gifted youth to love and be beloved, and to reap unalienable joy
from an unblamed passion? If his heart had slept but a few years
longer, he might have been saved; but it awoke in its infancy; it had
power, but no knowledge; and it was ruined, even as a too early-blowing
bud is nipt by the killing frost.
I did not accuse Evadne of hypocrisy or a wish to deceive her lover;
but the first letter that I saw of hers convinced me that she did not
love him; it was written with elegance, and, foreigner as she was, with
great command of language. The hand-writing itself was exquisitely
beautiful; there was something in her very paper and its folds, which
even I, who did not love, and was withal unskilled in such matters,
could discern as being tasteful. There was much kindness, gratitude,
and sweetness in her expression, but no love. Evadne was two years
older than Adrian; and who, at eighteen, ever loved one so much their
junior? I compared her placid epistles with the burning ones of Adrian.
His soul seemed to distil itself into the words he wrote; and they
breathed on the paper, bearing with them a portion of the life of love,
which was his life. The very writing used to exhaust him; and he would
weep over them, merely from the excess of emotion they awakened in his
heart.
Adrian’s soul was painted in his countenance, and concealment or deceit
were at the antipodes to the dreadless frankness of his nature. Evadne
made it her earnest request that the tale of their loves should not be
revealed to his mother; and after for a while contesting the point, he
yielded it to her. A vain concession; his demeanour quickly betrayed
his secret to the quick eyes of the ex-queen. With the same wary
prudence that characterized her whole conduct, she concealed her
discovery, but hastened to remove her son from the sphere of the
attractive Greek. He was sent to Cumberland; but the plan of
correspondence between the lovers, arranged by Evadne, was effectually
hidden from her. Thus the absence of Adrian, concerted for the purpose
of separating, united them in firmer bonds than ever. To me he
discoursed ceaselessly of his beloved Ionian. Her country, its ancient
annals, its late memorable struggles, were all made to partake in her
glory and excellence. He submitted to be away from her, because she
commanded this submission; but for her influence, he would have
declared his attachment before all England, and resisted, with unshaken
constancy, his mother’s opposition. Evadne’s feminine prudence
perceived how useless any assertion of his resolves would be, till
added years gave weight to his power. Perhaps there was besides a
lurking dislike to bind herself in the face of the world to one whom
she did not love—not love, at least, with that passionate enthusiasm
which her heart told her she might one day feel towards another. He
obeyed her injunctions, and passed a year in exile in Cumberland.
CHAPTER III.
Happy, thrice happy, were the months, and weeks, and hours of that
year. Friendship, hand in hand with admiration, tenderness and respect,
built a bower of delight in my heart, late rough as an untrod wild in
America, as the homeless wind or herbless sea. Insatiate thirst for
knowledge, and boundless affection for Adrian, combined to keep both my
heart and understanding occupied, and I was consequently happy. What
happiness is so true and unclouded, as the overflowing and talkative
delight of young people. In our boat, upon my native lake, beside the
streams and the pale bordering poplars—in valley and over hill, my
crook thrown aside, a nobler flock to tend than silly sheep, even a
flock of new-born ideas, I read or listened to Adrian; and his
discourse, whether it concerned his love or his theories for the
improvement of man, alike entranced me. Sometimes my lawless mood would
return, my love of peril, my resistance to authority; but this was in
his absence; under the mild sway of his dear eyes, I was obedient and
good as a boy of five years old, who does his mother’s bidding.
After a residence of about a year at Ulswater, Adrian visited London,
and came back full of plans for our benefit. You must begin life, he
said: you are seventeen, and longer delay would render the necessary
apprenticeship more and more irksome. He foresaw that his own life
would be one of struggle, and I must partake his labours with him. The
better to fit me for this task, we must now separate. He found my name
a good passport to preferment, and he had procured for me the situation
of private secretary to the Ambassador at Vienna, where I should enter
on my career under the best auspices. In two years, I should return to
my country, with a name well known and a reputation already founded.
And Perdita?—Perdita was to become the pupil, friend and younger sister
of Evadne. With his usual thoughtfulness, he had provided for her
independence in this situation. How refuse the offers of this generous
friend?—I did not wish to refuse them; but in my heart of hearts, I
made a vow to devote life, knowledge, and power, all of which, in as
much as they were of any value, he had bestowed on me—all, all my
capacities and hopes, to him alone I would devote.
Thus I promised myself, as I journied towards my destination with
roused and ardent expectation: expectation of the fulfilment of all
that in boyhood we promise ourselves of power and enjoyment in
maturity. Methought the time was now arrived, when, childish
occupations laid aside, I should enter into life. Even in the Elysian
fields, Virgil describes the souls of the happy as eager to drink of
the wave which was to restore them to this mortal coil. The young are
seldom in Elysium, for their desires, outstripping possibility, leave
them as poor as a moneyless debtor. We are told by the wisest
philosophers of the dangers of the world, the deceits of men, and the
treason of our own hearts: but not the less fearlessly does each put
off his frail bark from the port, spread the sail, and strain his oar,
to attain the multitudinous streams of the sea of life. How few in
youth’s prime, moor their vessels on the “golden sands,” and collect
the painted shells that strew them. But all at close of day, with riven
planks and rent canvas make for shore, and are either wrecked ere they
reach it, or find some wave-beaten haven, some desart strand, whereon
to cast themselves and die unmourned.
A truce to philosophy!—Life is before me, and I rush into possession.
Hope, glory, love, and blameless ambition are my guides, and my soul
knows no dread. What has been, though sweet, is gone; the present is
good only because it is about to change, and the to come is all my own.
Do I fear, that my heart palpitates? high aspirations cause the flow of
my blood; my eyes seem to penetrate the cloudy midnight of time, and to
discern within the depths of its darkness, the fruition of all my soul
desires.
Now pause!—During my journey I might dream, and with buoyant wings
reach the summit of life’s high edifice. Now that I am arrived at its
base, my pinions are furled, the mighty stairs are before me, and step
by step I must ascend the wondrous fane—
Speak!—What door is opened?
Behold me in a new capacity. A diplomatist: one among the
pleasure-seeking society of a gay city; a youth of promise; favourite
of the Ambassador. All was strange and admirable to the shepherd of
Cumberland. With breathless amaze I entered on the gay scene, whose
actors were
—the lilies glorious as Solomon,
Who toil not, neither do they spin.
Soon, too soon, I entered the giddy whirl; forgetting my studious
hours, and the companionship of Adrian. Passionate desire of sympathy,
and ardent pursuit for a wished-for object still characterized me. The
sight of beauty entranced me, and attractive manners in man or woman
won my entire confidence. I called it rapture, when a smile made my
heart beat; and I felt the life’s blood tingle in my frame, when I
approached the idol which for awhile I worshipped. The mere flow of
animal spirits was Paradise, and at night’s close I only desired a
renewal of the intoxicating delusion. The dazzling light of ornamented
rooms; lovely forms arrayed in splendid dresses; the motions of a
dance, the voluptuous tones of exquisite music, cradled my senses in
one delightful dream.
And is not this in its kind happiness? I appeal to moralists and sages.
I ask if in the calm of their measured reveries, if in the deep
meditations which fill their hours, they feel the extasy of a youthful
tyro in the school of pleasure? Can the calm beams of their
heaven-seeking eyes equal the flashes of mingling passion which blind
his, or does the influence of cold philosophy steep their soul in a joy
equal to his, engaged
In this dear work of youthful revelry.
But in truth, neither the lonely meditations of the hermit, nor the
tumultuous raptures of the reveller, are capable of satisfying man’s
heart. From the one we gather unquiet speculation, from the other
satiety. The mind flags beneath the weight of thought, and droops in
the heartless intercourse of those whose sole aim is amusement. There
is no fruition in their vacant kindness, and sharp rocks lurk beneath
the smiling ripples of these shallow waters.
Thus I felt, when disappointment, weariness, and solitude drove me back
upon my heart, to gather thence the joy of which it had become barren.
My flagging spirits asked for something to speak to the affections; and
not finding it, I drooped. Thus, notwithstanding the thoughtless
delight that waited on its commencement, the impression I have of my
life at Vienna is melancholy. Goethe has said, that in youth we cannot
be happy unless we love. I did not love; but I was devoured by a
restless wish to be something to others. I became the victim of
ingratitude and cold coquetry—then I desponded, and imagined that my
discontent gave me a right to hate the world. I receded to solitude; I
had recourse to my books, and my desire again to enjoy the society of
Adrian became a burning thirst.
Emulation, that in its excess almost assumed the venomous properties of
envy, gave a sting to these feelings. At this period the name and
exploits of one of my countrymen filled the world with admiration.
Relations of what he had done, conjectures concerning his future
actions, were the never-failing topics of the hour. I was not angry on
my own account, but I felt as if the praises which this idol received
were leaves torn from laurels destined for Adrian. But I must enter
into some account of this darling of fame—this favourite of the
wonder-loving world.
Lord Raymond was the sole remnant of a noble but impoverished family.
From early youth he had considered his pedigree with complacency, and
bitterly lamented his want of wealth. His first wish was
aggrandisement; and the means that led towards this end were secondary
considerations. Haughty, yet trembling to every demonstration of
respect; ambitious, but too proud to shew his ambition; willing to
achieve honour, yet a votary of pleasure,— he entered upon life. He was
met on the threshold by some insult, real or imaginary; some repulse,
where he least expected it; some disappointment, hard for his pride to
bear. He writhed beneath an injury he was unable to revenge; and he
quitted England with a vow not to return, till the good time should
arrive, when she might feel the power of him she now despised.
He became an adventurer in the Greek wars. His reckless courage and
comprehensive genius brought him into notice. He became the darling
hero of this rising people. His foreign birth, and he refused to throw
off his allegiance to his native country, alone prevented him from
filling the first offices in the state. But, though others might rank
higher in title and ceremony, Lord Raymond held a station above and
beyond all this. He led the Greek armies to victory; their triumphs
were all his own. When he appeared, whole towns poured forth their
population to meet him; new songs were adapted to their national airs,
whose themes were his glory, valour, and munificence. A truce was
concluded between the Greeks and Turks. At the same time, Lord Raymond,
by some unlooked-for chance, became the possessor of an immense fortune
in England, whither he returned, crowned with glory, to receive the
meed of honour and distinction before denied to his pretensions. His
proud heart rebelled against this change. In what was the despised
Raymond not the same? If the acquisition of power in the shape of
wealth caused this alteration, that power should they feel as an iron
yoke. Power therefore was the aim of all his endeavours; aggrandizement
the mark at which he for ever shot. In open ambition or close intrigue,
his end was the same—to attain the first station in his own country.
This account filled me with curiosity. The events that in succession
followed his return to England, gave me keener feelings. Among his
other advantages, Lord Raymond was supremely handsome; every one
admired him; of women he was the idol. He was courteous,
honey-tongued—an adept in fascinating arts. What could not this man
achieve in the busy English world? Change succeeded to change; the
entire history did not reach me; for Adrian had ceased to write, and
Perdita was a laconic correspondent. The rumour went that Adrian had
become—how write the fatal word—mad: that Lord Raymond was the
favourite of the ex-queen, her daughter’s destined husband. Nay, more,
that this aspiring noble revived the claim of the house of Windsor to
the crown, and that, on the event of Adrian’s incurable disorder and
his marriage with the sister, the brow of the ambitious Raymond might
be encircled with the magic ring of regality.
Such a tale filled the trumpet of many voiced fame; such a tale
rendered my longer stay at Vienna, away from the friend of my youth,
intolerable. Now I must fulfil my vow; now range myself at his side,
and be his ally and support till death. Farewell to courtly pleasure;
to politic intrigue; to the maze of passion and folly! All hail,
England! Native England, receive thy child! thou art the scene of all
my hopes, the mighty theatre on which is acted the only drama that can,
heart and soul, bear me along with it in its development. A voice most
irresistible, a power omnipotent, drew me thither. After an absence of
two years I landed on its shores, not daring to make any inquiries,
fearful of every remark. My first visit would be to my sister, who
inhabited a little cottage, a part of Adrian’s gift, on the borders of
Windsor Forest. From her I should learn the truth concerning our
protector; I should hear why she had withdrawn from the protection of
the Princess Evadne, and be instructed as to the influence which this
overtopping and towering Raymond exercised over the fortunes of my
friend.
I had never before been in the neighbourhood of Windsor; the fertility
and beauty of the country around now struck me with admiration, which
encreased as I approached the antique wood. The ruins of majestic oaks
which had grown, flourished, and decayed during the progress of
centuries, marked where the limits of the forest once reached, while
the shattered palings and neglected underwood shewed that this part was
deserted for the younger plantations, which owed their birth to the
beginning of the nineteenth century, and now stood in the pride of
maturity. Perdita’s humble dwelling was situated on the skirts of the
most ancient portion; before it was stretched Bishopgate Heath, which
towards the east appeared interminable, and was bounded to the west by
Chapel Wood and the grove of Virginia Water. Behind, the cottage was
shadowed by the venerable fathers of the forest, under which the deer
came to graze, and which for the most part hollow and decayed, formed
fantastic groups that contrasted with the regular beauty of the younger
trees. These, the offspring of a later period, stood erect and seemed
ready to advance fearlessly into coming time; while those out worn
stragglers, blasted and broke, clung to each other, their weak boughs
sighing as the wind buffetted them—a weather-beaten crew.
A light railing surrounded the garden of the cottage, which,
low-roofed, seemed to submit to the majesty of nature, and cower amidst
the venerable remains of forgotten time. Flowers, the children of the
spring, adorned her garden and casements; in the midst of lowliness
there was an air of elegance which spoke the graceful taste of the
inmate. With a beating heart I entered the enclosure; as I stood at the
entrance, I heard her voice, melodious as it had ever been, which
before I saw her assured me of her welfare.
A moment more and Perdita appeared; she stood before me in the fresh
bloom of youthful womanhood, different from and yet the same as the
mountain girl I had left. Her eyes could not be deeper than they were
in childhood, nor her countenance more expressive; but the expression
was changed and improved; intelligence sat on her brow; when she smiled
her face was embellished by the softest sensibility, and her low,
modulated voice seemed tuned by love. Her person was formed in the most
feminine proportions; she was not tall, but her mountain life had given
freedom to her motions, so that her light step scarce made her
foot-fall heard as she tript across the hall to meet me. When we had
parted, I had clasped her to my bosom with unrestrained warmth; we met
again, and new feelings were awakened; when each beheld the other,
childhood passed, as full grown actors on this changeful scene. The
pause was but for a moment; the flood of association and natural
feeling which had been checked, again rushed in full tide upon our
hearts, and with tenderest emotion we were swiftly locked in each
other’s embrace.
This burst of passionate feeling over, with calmed thoughts we sat
together, talking of the past and present. I alluded to the coldness of
her letters; but the few minutes we had spent together sufficiently
explained the origin of this. New feelings had arisen within her, which
she was unable to express in writing to one whom she had only known in
childhood; but we saw each other again, and our intimacy was renewed as
if nothing had intervened to check it. I detailed the incidents of my
sojourn abroad, and then questioned her as to the changes that had
taken place at home, the causes of Adrian’s absence, and her secluded
life.
The tears that suffused my sister’s eyes when I mentioned our friend,
and her heightened colour seemed to vouch for the truth of the reports
that had reached me. But their import was too terrible for me to give
instant credit to my suspicion. Was there indeed anarchy in the sublime
universe of Adrian’s thoughts, did madness scatter the well-appointed
legions, and was he no longer the lord of his own soul? Beloved friend,
this ill world was no clime for your gentle spirit; you delivered up
its governance to false humanity, which stript it of its leaves ere
winter-time, and laid bare its quivering life to the evil ministration
of roughest winds. Have those gentle eyes, those “channels of the soul”
lost their meaning, or do they only in their glare disclose the
horrible tale of its aberrations? Does that voice no longer “discourse
excellent music?” Horrible, most horrible! I veil my eyes in terror of
the change, and gushing tears bear witness to my sympathy for this
unimaginable ruin.
In obedience to my request Perdita detailed the melancholy
circumstances that led to this event.
The frank and unsuspicious mind of Adrian, gifted as it was by every
natural grace, endowed with transcendant powers of intellect,
unblemished by the shadow of defect (unless his dreadless independence
of thought was to be construed into one), was devoted, even as a victim
to sacrifice, to his love for Evadne. He entrusted to her keeping the
treasures of his soul, his aspirations after excellence, and his plans
for the improvement of mankind. As manhood dawned upon him, his schemes
and theories, far from being changed by personal and prudential
motives, acquired new strength from the powers he felt arise within
him; and his love for Evadne became deep-rooted, as he each day became
more certain that the path he pursued was full of difficulty, and that
he must seek his reward, not in the applause or gratitude of his fellow
creatures, hardly in the success of his plans, but in the approbation
of his own heart, and in her love and sympathy, which was to lighten
every toil and recompence every sacrifice.
In solitude, and through many wanderings afar from the haunts of men,
he matured his views for the reform of the English government, and the
improvement of the people. It would have been well if he had concealed
his sentiments, until he had come into possession of the power which
would secure their practical development. But he was impatient of the
years that must intervene, he was frank of heart and fearless. He gave
not only a brief denial to his mother’s schemes, but published his
intention of using his influence to diminish the power of the
aristocracy, to effect a greater equalization of wealth and privilege,
and to introduce a perfect system of republican government into
England. At first his mother treated his theories as the wild ravings
of inexperience. But they were so systematically arranged, and his
arguments so well supported, that though still in appearance
incredulous, she began to fear him. She tried to reason with him, and
finding him inflexible, learned to hate him.
Strange to say, this feeling was infectious. His enthusiasm for good
which did not exist; his contempt for the sacredness of authority; his
ardour and imprudence were all at the antipodes of the usual routine of
life; the worldly feared him; the young and inexperienced did not
understand the lofty severity of his moral views, and disliked him as a
being different from themselves. Evadne entered but coldly into his
systems. She thought he did well to assert his own will, but she wished
that will to have been more intelligible to the multitude. She had none
of the spirit of a martyr, and did not incline to share the shame and
defeat of a fallen patriot. She was aware of the purity of his motives,
the generosity of his disposition, his true and ardent attachment to
her; and she entertained a great affection for him. He repaid this
spirit of kindness with the fondest gratitude, and made her the
treasure-house of all his hopes.
At this time Lord Raymond returned from Greece. No two persons could be
more opposite than Adrian and he. With all the incongruities of his
character, Raymond was emphatically a man of the world. His passions
were violent; as these often obtained the mastery over him, he could
not always square his conduct to the obvious line of self-interest, but
self-gratification at least was the paramount object with him. He
looked on the structure of society as but a part of the machinery which
supported the web on which his life was traced. The earth was spread
out as an highway for him; the heavens built up as a canopy for him.
Adrian felt that he made a part of a great whole. He owned affinity not
only with mankind, but all nature was akin to him; the mountains and
sky were his friends; the winds of heaven and the offspring of earth
his playmates; while he the focus only of this mighty mirror, felt his
life mingle with the universe of existence. His soul was sympathy, and
dedicated to the worship of beauty and excellence. Adrian and Raymond
now came into contact, and a spirit of aversion rose between them.
Adrian despised the narrow views of the politician, and Raymond held in
supreme contempt the benevolent visions of the philanthropist.
With the coming of Raymond was formed the storm that laid waste at one
fell blow the gardens of delight and sheltered paths which Adrian
fancied that he had secured to himself, as a refuge from defeat and
contumely. Raymond, the deliverer of Greece, the graceful soldier, who
bore in his mien a tinge of all that, peculiar to her native clime,
Evadne cherished as most dear— Raymond was loved by Evadne. Overpowered
by her new sensations, she did not pause to examine them, or to
regulate her conduct by any sentiments except the tyrannical one which
suddenly usurped the empire of her heart. She yielded to its influence,
and the too natural consequence in a mind unattuned to soft emotions
was, that the attentions of Adrian became distasteful to her. She grew
capricious; her gentle conduct towards him was exchanged for asperity
and repulsive coldness. When she perceived the wild or pathetic appeal
of his expressive countenance, she would relent, and for a while resume
her ancient kindness. But these fluctuations shook to its depths the
soul of the sensitive youth; he no longer deemed the world subject to
him, because he possessed Evadne’s love; he felt in every nerve that
the dire storms of the mental universe were about to attack his fragile
being, which quivered at the expectation of its advent.
Perdita, who then resided with Evadne, saw the torture that Adrian
endured. She loved him as a kind elder brother; a relation to guide,
protect, and instruct her, without the too frequent tyranny of parental
authority. She adored his virtues, and with mixed contempt and
indignation she saw Evadne pile drear sorrow on his head, for the sake
of one who hardly marked her. In his solitary despair Adrian would
often seek my sister, and in covered terms express his misery, while
fortitude and agony divided the throne of his mind. Soon, alas! was one
to conquer. Anger made no part of his emotion. With whom should he be
angry? Not with Raymond, who was unconscious of the misery he
occasioned; not with Evadne, for her his soul wept tears of blood—poor,
mistaken girl, slave not tyrant was she, and amidst his own anguish he
grieved for her future destiny. Once a writing of his fell into
Perdita’s hands; it was blotted with tears—well might any blot it with
the like—
“Life”—it began thus—“is not the thing romance writers describe it;
going through the measures of a dance, and after various evolutions
arriving at a conclusion, when the dancers may sit down and repose.
While there is life there is action and change. We go on, each thought
linked to the one which was its parent, each act to a previous act. No
joy or sorrow dies barren of progeny, which for ever generated and
generating, weaves the chain that make our life:
Un dia llama à otro dia
y asi llama, y encadena
llanto à llanto, y pena à pena.
Truly disappointment is the guardian deity of human life; she sits at
the threshold of unborn time, and marshals the events as they come
forth. Once my heart sat lightly in my bosom; all the beauty of the
world was doubly beautiful, irradiated by the sun-light shed from my
own soul. O wherefore are love and ruin for ever joined in this our
mortal dream? So that when we make our hearts a lair for that gently
seeming beast, its companion enters with it, and pitilessly lays waste
what might have been an home and a shelter.”
By degrees his health was shaken by his misery, and then his intellect
yielded to the same tyranny. His manners grew wild; he was sometimes
ferocious, sometimes absorbed in speechless melancholy. Suddenly Evadne
quitted London for Paris; he followed, and overtook her when the vessel
was about to sail; none knew what passed between them, but Perdita had
never seen him since; he lived in seclusion, no one knew where,
attended by such persons as his mother selected for that purpose.
CHAPTER IV.
The next day Lord Raymond called at Perdita’s cottage, on his way to
Windsor Castle. My sister’s heightened colour and sparkling eyes half
revealed her secret to me. He was perfectly self-possessed; he accosted
us both with courtesy, seemed immediately to enter into our feelings,
and to make one with us. I scanned his physiognomy, which varied as he
spoke, yet was beautiful in every change. The usual expression of his
eyes was soft, though at times he could make them even glare with
ferocity; his complexion was colourless; and every trait spoke
predominate self-will; his smile was pleasing, though disdain too often
curled his lips—lips which to female eyes were the very throne of
beauty and love. His voice, usually gentle, often startled you by a
sharp discordant note, which shewed that his usual low tone was rather
the work of study than nature. Thus full of contradictions, unbending
yet haughty, gentle yet fierce, tender and again neglectful, he by some
strange art found easy entrance to the admiration and affection of
women; now caressing and now tyrannizing over them according to his
mood, but in every change a despot.
At the present time Raymond evidently wished to appear amiable. Wit,
hilarity, and deep observation were mingled in his talk, rendering
every sentence that he uttered as a flash of light. He soon conquered
my latent distaste; I endeavoured to watch him and Perdita, and to keep
in mind every thing I had heard to his disadvantage. But all appeared
so ingenuous, and all was so fascinating, that I forgot everything
except the pleasure his society afforded me. Under the idea of
initiating me in the scene of English politics and society, of which I
was soon to become a part, he narrated a number of anecdotes, and
sketched many characters; his discourse, rich and varied, flowed on,
pervading all my senses with pleasure. But for one thing he would have
been completely triumphant. He alluded to Adrian, and spoke of him with
that disparagement that the worldly wise always attach to enthusiasm.
He perceived the cloud gathering, and tried to dissipate it; but the
strength of my feelings would not permit me to pass thus lightly over
this sacred subject; so I said emphatically, “Permit me to remark, that
I am devotedly attached to the Earl of Windsor; he is my best friend
and benefactor. I reverence his goodness, I accord with his opinions,
and bitterly lament his present, and I trust temporary, illness. That
illness, from its peculiarity, makes it painful to me beyond words to
hear him mentioned, unless in terms of respect and affection.”
Raymond replied; but there was nothing conciliatory in his reply. I saw
that in his heart he despised those dedicated to any but worldly idols.
“Every man,” he said, “dreams about something, love, honour, and
pleasure; you dream of friendship, and devote yourself to a maniac;
well, if that be your vocation, doubtless you are in the right to
follow it.”—
Some reflection seemed to sting him, and the spasm of pain that for a
moment convulsed his countenance, checked my indignation. “Happy are
dreamers,” he continued, “so that they be not awakened! Would I could
dream! but ‘broad and garish day’ is the element in which I live; the
dazzling glare of reality inverts the scene for me. Even the ghost of
friendship has departed, and love”——He broke off; nor could I guess
whether the disdain that curled his lip was directed against the
passion, or against himself for being its slave.
This account may be taken as a sample of my intercourse with Lord
Raymond. I became intimate with him, and each day afforded me occasion
to admire more and more his powerful and versatile talents, that
together with his eloquence, which was graceful and witty, and his
wealth now immense, caused him to be feared, loved, and hated beyond
any other man in England.
My descent, which claimed interest, if not respect, my former
connection with Adrian, the favour of the ambassador, whose secretary I
had been, and now my intimacy with Lord Raymond, gave me easy access to
the fashionable and political circles of England. To my inexperience we
at first appeared on the eve of a civil war; each party was violent,
acrimonious, and unyielding. Parliament was divided by three factions,
aristocrats, democrats, and royalists. After Adrian’s declared
predeliction to the republican form of government, the latter party had
nearly died away, chiefless, guideless; but, when Lord Raymond came
forward as its leader, it revived with redoubled force. Some were
royalists from prejudice and ancient affection, and there were many
moderately inclined who feared alike the capricious tyranny of the
popular party, and the unbending despotism of the aristocrats. More
than a third of the members ranged themselves under Raymond, and their
number was perpetually encreasing. The aristocrats built their hopes on
their preponderant wealth and influence; the reformers on the force of
the nation itself; the debates were violent, more violent the
discourses held by each knot of politicians as they assembled to
arrange their measures. Opprobrious epithets were bandied about,
resistance even to the death threatened; meetings of the populace
disturbed the quiet order of the country; except in war, how could all
this end? Even as the destructive flames were ready to break forth, I
saw them shrink back; allayed by the absence of the military, by the
aversion entertained by every one to any violence, save that of speech,
and by the cordial politeness and even friendship of the hostile
leaders when they met in private society. I was from a thousand motives
induced to attend minutely to the course of events, and watch each turn
with intense anxiety.
I could not but perceive that Perdita loved Raymond; methought also
that he regarded the fair daughter of Verney with admiration and
tenderness. Yet I knew that he was urging forward his marriage with the
presumptive heiress of the Earldom of Windsor, with keen expectation of
the advantages that would thence accrue to him. All the ex-queen’s
friends were his friends; no week passed that he did not hold
consultations with her at Windsor.
I had never seen the sister of Adrian. I had heard that she was lovely,
amiable, and fascinating. Wherefore should I see her? There are times
when we have an indefinable sentiment of impending change for better or
for worse, to arise from an event; and, be it for better or for worse,
we fear the change, and shun the event. For this reason I avoided this
high-born damsel. To me she was everything and nothing; her very name
mentioned by another made me start and tremble; the endless discussion
concerning her union with Lord Raymond was real agony to me. Methought
that, Adrian withdrawn from active life, and this beauteous Idris, a
victim probably to her mother’s ambitious schemes, I ought to come
forward to protect her from undue influence, guard her from
unhappiness, and secure to her freedom of choice, the right of every
human being. Yet how was I to do this? She herself would disdain my
interference. Since then I must be an object of indifference or
contempt to her, better, far better avoid her, nor expose myself before
her and the scornful world to the chance of playing the mad game of a
fond, foolish Icarus. One day, several months after my return to
England, I quitted London to visit my sister. Her society was my chief
solace and delight; and my spirits always rose at the expectation of
seeing her. Her conversation was full of pointed remark and
discernment; in her pleasant alcove, redolent with sweetest flowers,
adorned by magnificent casts, antique vases, and copies of the finest
pictures of Raphael, Correggio, and Claude, painted by herself, I
fancied myself in a fairy retreat untainted by and inaccessible to the
noisy contentions of politicians and the frivolous pursuits of fashion.
On this occasion, my sister was not alone; nor could I fail to
recognise her companion: it was Idris, the till now unseen object of my
mad idolatry.
In what fitting terms of wonder and delight, in what choice expression
and soft flow of language, can I usher in the loveliest, wisest, best?
How in poor assemblage of words convey the halo of glory that
surrounded her, the thousand graces that waited unwearied on her. The
first thing that struck you on beholding that charming countenance was
its perfect goodness and frankness; candour sat upon her brow,
simplicity in her eyes, heavenly benignity in her smile. Her tall slim
figure bent gracefully as a poplar to the breezy west, and her gait,
goddess-like, was as that of a winged angel new alit from heaven’s high
floor; the pearly fairness of her complexion was stained by a pure
suffusion; her voice resembled the low, subdued tenor of a flute. It is
easiest perhaps to describe by contrast. I have detailed the
perfections of my sister; and yet she was utterly unlike Idris.
Perdita, even where she loved, was reserved and timid; Idris was frank
and confiding. The one recoiled to solitude, that she might there
entrench herself from disappointment and injury; the other walked forth
in open day, believing that none would harm her. Wordsworth has
compared a beloved female to two fair objects in nature; but his lines
always appeared to me rather a contrast than a similitude:
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye,
Fair as a star when only one
Is shining in the sky.
Such a violet was sweet Perdita, trembling to entrust herself to the
very air, cowering from observation, yet betrayed by her excellences;
and repaying with a thousand graces the labour of those who sought her
in her lonely bye-path. Idris was as the star, set in single splendour
in the dim anadem of balmy evening; ready to enlighten and delight the
subject world, shielded herself from every taint by her unimagined
distance from all that was not like herself akin to heaven.
I found this vision of beauty in Perdita’s alcove, in earnest
conversation with its inmate. When my sister saw me, she rose, and
taking my hand, said, “He is here, even at our wish; this is Lionel, my
brother.” Idris arose also, and bent on me her eyes of celestial blue,
and with grace peculiar said—“You hardly need an introduction; we have
a picture, highly valued by my father, which declares at once your
name. Verney, you will acknowledge this tie, and as my brother’s
friend, I feel that I may trust you.”
Then, with lids humid with a tear and trembling voice, she continued—
“Dear friends, do not think it strange that now, visiting you for the
first time, I ask your assistance, and confide my wishes and fears to
you. To you alone do I dare speak; I have heard you commended by
impartial spectators; you are my brother’s friends, therefore you must
be mine. What can I say? if you refuse to aid me, I am lost indeed!”
She cast up her eyes, while wonder held her auditors mute; then, as if
carried away by her feelings, she cried—“My brother! beloved, ill-fated
Adrian! how speak of your misfortunes? Doubtless you have both heard
the current tale; perhaps believe the slander; but he is not mad! Were
an angel from the foot of God’s throne to assert it, never, never would
I believe it. He is wronged, betrayed, imprisoned—save him! Verney, you
must do this; seek him out in whatever part of the island he is
immured; find him, rescue him from his persecutors, restore him to
himself, to me—on the wide earth I have none to love but only him!”
Her earnest appeal, so sweetly and passionately expressed, filled me
with wonder and sympathy; and, when she added, with thrilling voice and
look, “Do you consent to undertake this enterprize?” I vowed, with
energy and truth, to devote myself in life and death to the restoration
and welfare of Adrian. We then conversed on the plan I should pursue,
and discussed the probable means of discovering his residence. While we
were in earnest discourse, Lord Raymond entered unannounced: I saw
Perdita tremble and grow deadly pale, and the cheeks of Idris glow with
purest blushes. He must have been astonished at our conclave, disturbed
by it I should have thought; but nothing of this appeared; he saluted
my companions, and addressed me with a cordial greeting. Idris appeared
suspended for a moment, and then with extreme sweetness, she said,
“Lord Raymond, I confide in your goodness and honour.”
Smiling haughtily, he bent his head, and replied, with emphasis, “Do
you indeed confide, Lady Idris?”
She endeavoured to read his thought, and then answered with dignity,
“As you please. It is certainly best not to compromise oneself by any
concealment.”
“Pardon me,” he replied, “if I have offended. Whether you trust me or
not, rely on my doing my utmost to further your wishes, whatever they
may be.”
Idris smiled her thanks, and rose to take leave. Lord Raymond requested
permission to accompany her to Windsor Castle, to which she consented,
and they quitted the cottage together. My sister and I were left—truly
like two fools, who fancied that they had obtained a golden treasure,
till daylight shewed it to be lead—two silly, luckless flies, who had
played in sunbeams and were caught in a spider’s web. I leaned against
the casement, and watched those two glorious creatures, till they
disappeared in the forest-glades; and then I turned. Perdita had not
moved; her eyes fixed on the ground, her cheeks pale, her very lips
white, motionless and rigid, every feature stamped by woe, she sat.
Half frightened, I would have taken her hand; but she shudderingly
withdrew it, and strove to collect herself. I entreated her to speak to
me: “Not now,” she replied, “nor do you speak to me, my dear Lionel;
you _can_ say nothing, for you know nothing. I will see you to-morrow;
in the meantime, adieu!” She rose, and walked from the room; but
pausing at the door, and leaning against it, as if her over-busy
thoughts had taken from her the power of supporting herself, she said,
“Lord Raymond will probably return. Will you tell him that he must
excuse me to-day, for I am not well. I will see him to-morrow if he
wishes it, and you also. You had better return to London with him; you
can there make the enquiries agreed upon, concerning the Earl of
Windsor and visit me again to-morrow, before you proceed on your
journey—till then, farewell!”
She spoke falteringly, and concluded with a heavy sigh. I gave my
assent to her request; and she left me. I felt as if, from the order of
the systematic world, I had plunged into chaos, obscure, contrary,
unintelligible. That Raymond should marry Idris was more than ever
intolerable; yet my passion, though a giant from its birth, was too
strange, wild, and impracticable, for me to feel at once the misery I
perceived in Perdita. How should I act? She had not confided in me; I
could not demand an explanation from Raymond without the hazard of
betraying what was perhaps her most treasured secret. I would obtain
the truth from her the following day—in the mean time—But, while I was
occupied by multiplying reflections, Lord Raymond returned. He asked
for my sister; and I delivered her message. After musing on it for a
moment, he asked me if I were about to return to London, and if I would
accompany him: I consented. He was full of thought, and remained silent
during a considerable part of our ride; at length he said, “I must
apologize to you for my abstraction; the truth is, Ryland’s motion
comes on to-night, and I am considering my reply.”
Ryland was the leader of the popular party, a hard-headed man, and in
his way eloquent; he had obtained leave to bring in a bill making it
treason to endeavour to change the present state of the English
government and the standing laws of the republic. This attack was
directed against Raymond and his machinations for the restoration of
the monarchy.
Raymond asked me if I would accompany him to the House that evening. I
remembered my pursuit for intelligence concerning Adrian; and, knowing
that my time would be fully occupied, I excused myself. “Nay,” said my
companion, “I can free you from your present impediment. You are going
to make enquiries concerning the Earl of Windsor. I can answer them at
once, he is at the Duke of Athol’s seat at Dunkeld. On the first
approach of his disorder, he travelled about from one place to another;
until, arriving at that romantic seclusion he refused to quit it, and
we made arrangements with the Duke for his continuing there.”
I was hurt by the careless tone with which he conveyed this
information, and replied coldly: “I am obliged to you for your
intelligence, and will avail myself of it.”
“You shall, Verney,” said he, “and if you continue of the same mind, I
will facilitate your views. But first witness, I beseech you, the
result of this night’s contest, and the triumph I am about to achieve,
if I may so call it, while I fear that victory is to me defeat. What
can I do? My dearest hopes appear to be near their fulfilment. The
ex-queen gives me Idris; Adrian is totally unfitted to succeed to the
earldom, and that earldom in my hands becomes a kingdom. By the
reigning God it is true; the paltry earldom of Windsor shall no longer
content him, who will inherit the rights which must for ever appertain
to the person who possesses it. The Countess can never forget that she
has been a queen, and she disdains to leave a diminished inheritance to
her children; her power and my wit will rebuild the throne, and this
brow will be clasped by a kingly diadem.—I can do this—I can marry
Idris.”—-
He stopped abruptly, his countenance darkened, and its expression
changed again and again under the influence of internal passion. I
asked, “Does Lady Idris love you?”
“What a question,” replied he laughing. “She will of course, as I shall
her, when we are married.”
“You begin late,” said I, ironically, “marriage is usually considered
the grave, and not the cradle of love. So you are about to love her,
but do not already?”
“Do not catechise me, Lionel; I will do my duty by her, be assured.
Love! I must steel my heart against _that_; expel it from its tower of
strength, barricade it out: the fountain of love must cease to play,
its waters be dried up, and all passionate thoughts attendant on it
die—that is to say, the love which would rule me, not that which I
rule. Idris is a gentle, pretty, sweet little girl; it is impossible
not to have an affection for her, and I have a very sincere one; only
do not speak of love —love, the tyrant and the tyrant-queller; love,
until now my conqueror, now my slave; the hungry fire, the untameable
beast, the fanged snake—no—no—I will have nothing to do with that love.
Tell me, Lionel, do you consent that I should marry this young lady?”
He bent his keen eyes upon me, and my uncontrollable heart swelled in
my bosom. I replied in a calm voice—but how far from calm was the
thought imaged by my still words—“Never! I can never consent that Lady
Idris should be united to one who does not love her.”
“Because you love her yourself.”
“Your Lordship might have spared that taunt; I do not, dare not love
her.”
“At least,” he continued haughtily, “she does not love you. I would not
marry a reigning sovereign, were I not sure that her heart was free.
But, O, Lionel! a kingdom is a word of might, and gently sounding are
the terms that compose the style of royalty. Were not the mightiest men
of the olden times kings? Alexander was a king; Solomon, the wisest of
men, was a king; Napoleon was a king; Cæsar died in his attempt to
become one, and Cromwell, the puritan and king-killer, aspired to
regality. The father of Adrian yielded up the already broken sceptre of
England; but I will rear the fallen plant, join its dismembered frame,
and exalt it above all the flowers of the field.
“You need not wonder that I freely discover Adrian’s abode. Do not
suppose that I am wicked or foolish enough to found my purposed
sovereignty on a fraud, and one so easily discovered as the truth or
falsehood of the Earl’s insanity. I am just come from him. Before I
decided on my marriage with Idris, I resolved to see him myself again,
and to judge of the probability of his recovery.—He is irrecoverably
mad.”
I gasped for breath—
“I will not detail to you,” continued Raymond, “the melancholy
particulars. You shall see him, and judge for yourself; although I fear
this visit, useless to him, will be insufferably painful to you. It has
weighed on my spirits ever since. Excellent and gentle as he is even in
the downfall of his reason, I do not worship him as you do, but I would
give all my hopes of a crown and my right hand to boot, to see him
restored to himself.”
His voice expressed the deepest compassion: “Thou most unaccountable
being,” I cried, “whither will thy actions tend, in all this maze of
purpose in which thou seemest lost?”
“Whither indeed? To a crown, a golden be-gemmed crown, I hope; and yet
I dare not trust and though I dream of a crown and wake for one, ever
and anon a busy devil whispers to me, that it is but a fool’s cap that
I seek, and that were I wise, I should trample on it, and take in its
stead, that which is worth all the crowns of the east and
presidentships of the west.”
“And what is that?”
“If I do make it my choice, then you shall know; at present I dare not
speak, even think of it.”
Again he was silent, and after a pause turned to me laughingly. When
scorn did not inspire his mirth, when it was genuine gaiety that
painted his features with a joyous expression, his beauty became
super-eminent, divine. “Verney,” said he, “my first act when I become
King of England, will be to unite with the Greeks, take Constantinople,
and subdue all Asia. I intend to be a warrior, a conqueror; Napoleon’s
name shall vail to mine; and enthusiasts, instead of visiting his rocky
grave, and exalting the merits of the fallen, shall adore my majesty,
and magnify my illustrious achievements.”
I listened to Raymond with intense interest. Could I be other than all
ear, to one who seemed to govern the whole earth in his grasping
imagination, and who only quailed when he attempted to rule himself.
Then on his word and will depended my own happiness—the fate of all
dear to me. I endeavoured to divine the concealed meaning of his words.
Perdita’s name was not mentioned; yet I could not doubt that love for
her caused the vacillation of purpose that he exhibited. And who was so
worthy of love as my noble-minded sister? Who deserved the hand of this
self-exalted king more than she whose glance belonged to a queen of
nations? who loved him, as he did her; notwithstanding that
disappointment quelled her passion, and ambition held strong combat
with his.
We went together to the House in the evening. Raymond, while he knew
that his plans and prospects were to be discussed and decided during
the expected debate, was gay and careless. An hum, like that of ten
thousand hives of swarming bees, stunned us as we entered the
coffee-room. Knots of politicians were assembled with anxious brows and
loud or deep voices. The aristocratical party, the richest and most
influential men in England, appeared less agitated than the others, for
the question was to be discussed without their interference. Near the
fire was Ryland and his supporters. Ryland was a man of obscure birth
and of immense wealth, inherited from his father, who had been a
manufacturer. He had witnessed, when a young man, the abdication of the
king, and the amalgamation of the two houses of Lords and Commons; he
had sympathized with these popular encroachments, and it had been the
business of his life to consolidate and encrease them. Since then, the
influence of the landed proprietors had augmented; and at first Ryland
was not sorry to observe the machinations of Lord Raymond, which drew
off many of his opponent’s partizans. But the thing was now going too
far. The poorer nobility hailed the return of sovereignty, as an event
which would restore them to their power and rights, now lost. The half
extinct spirit of royalty roused itself in the minds of men; and they,
willing slaves, self-constituted subjects, were ready to bend their
necks to the yoke. Some erect and manly spirits still remained, pillars
of state; but the word republic had grown stale to the vulgar ear; and
many—the event would prove whether it was a majority— pined for the
tinsel and show of royalty. Ryland was roused to resistance; he
asserted that his sufferance alone had permitted the encrease of this
party; but the time for indulgence was passed, and with one motion of
his arm he would sweep away the cobwebs that blinded his countrymen.
When Raymond entered the coffee-room, his presence was hailed by his
friends almost with a shout. They gathered round him, counted their
numbers, and detailed the reasons why they were now to receive an
addition of such and such members, who had not yet declared themselves.
Some trifling business of the House having been gone through, the
leaders took their seats in the chamber; the clamour of voices
continued, till Ryland arose to speak, and then the slightest whispered
observation was audible. All eyes were fixed upon him as he
stood—ponderous of frame, sonorous of voice, and with a manner which,
though not graceful, was impressive. I turned from his marked, iron
countenance to Raymond, whose face, veiled by a smile, would not betray
his care; yet his lips quivered somewhat, and his hand clasped the
bench on which he sat, with a convulsive strength that made the muscles
start again.
Ryland began by praising the present state of the British empire. He
recalled past years to their memory; the miserable contentions which in
the time of our fathers arose almost to civil war, the abdication of
the late king, and the foundation of the republic. He described this
republic; shewed how it gave privilege to each individual in the state,
to rise to consequence, and even to temporary sovereignty. He compared
the royal and republican spirit; shewed how the one tended to enslave
the minds of men; while all the institutions of the other served to
raise even the meanest among us to something great and good. He shewed
how England had become powerful, and its inhabitants valiant and wise,
by means of the freedom they enjoyed. As he spoke, every heart swelled
with pride, and every cheek glowed with delight to remember, that each
one there was English, and that each supported and contributed to the
happy state of things now commemorated. Ryland’s fervour increased—his
eyes lighted up—his voice assumed the tone of passion. There was one
man, he continued, who wished to alter all this, and bring us back to
our days of impotence and contention:—one man, who would dare arrogate
the honour which was due to all who claimed England as their
birthplace, and set his name and style above the name and style of his
country. I saw at this juncture that Raymond changed colour; his eyes
were withdrawn from the orator, and cast on the ground; the listeners
turned from one to the other; but in the meantime the speaker’s voice
filled their ears—the thunder of his denunciations influenced their
senses. The very boldness of his language gave him weight; each knew
that he spoke truth—a truth known, but not acknowledged. He tore from
reality the mask with which she had been clothed; and the purposes of
Raymond, which before had crept around, ensnaring by stealth, now stood
a hunted stag—even at bay—as all perceived who watched the
irrepressible changes of his countenance. Ryland ended by moving, that
any attempt to re-erect the kingly power should be declared treason,
and he a traitor who should endeavour to change the present form of
government. Cheers and loud acclamations followed the close of his
speech.
After his motion had been seconded, Lord Raymond rose,—his countenance
bland, his voice softly melodious, his manner soothing, his grace and
sweetness came like the mild breathing of a flute, after the loud,
organ-like voice of his adversary. He rose, he said, to speak in favour
of the honourable member’s motion, with one slight amendment subjoined.
He was ready to go back to old times, and commemorate the contests of
our fathers, and the monarch’s abdication. Nobly and greatly, he said,
had the illustrious and last sovereign of England sacrificed himself to
the apparent good of his country, and divested himself of a power which
could only be maintained by the blood of his subjects—these subjects
named so no more, these, his friends and equals, had in gratitude
conferred certain favours and distinctions on him and his family for
ever. An ample estate was allotted to them, and they took the first
rank among the peers of Great Britain. Yet it might be conjectured that
they had not forgotten their ancient heritage; and it was hard that his
heir should suffer alike with any other pretender, if he attempted to
regain what by ancient right and inheritance belonged to him. He did
not say that he should favour such an attempt; but he did say that such
an attempt would be venial; and, if the aspirant did not go so far as
to declare war, and erect a standard in the kingdom, his fault ought to
be regarded with an indulgent eye. In his amendment he proposed, that
an exception should be made in the bill in favour of any person who
claimed the sovereign power in right of the earls of Windsor. Nor did
Raymond make an end without drawing in vivid and glowing colours, the
splendour of a kingdom, in opposition to the commercial spirit of
republicanism. He asserted, that each individual under the English
monarchy, was then as now, capable of attaining high rank and
power—with one only exception, that of the function of chief
magistrate; higher and nobler rank, than a bartering, timorous
commonwealth could afford. And for this one exception, to what did it
amount? The nature of riches and influence forcibly confined the list
of candidates to a few of the wealthiest; and it was much to be feared,
that the ill-humour and contention generated by this triennial
struggle, would counterbalance its advantages in impartial eyes. I can
ill record the flow of language and graceful turns of expression, the
wit and easy raillery that gave vigour and influence to his speech. His
manner, timid at first, became firm—his changeful face was lit up to
superhuman brilliancy; his voice, various as music, was like that
enchanting.
It were useless to record the debate that followed this harangue. Party
speeches were delivered, which clothed the question in cant, and veiled
its simple meaning in a woven wind of words. The motion was lost;
Ryland withdrew in rage and despair; and Raymond, gay and exulting,
retired to dream of his future kingdom.
CHAPTER IV.
Is there such a feeling as love at first sight? And if there be, in
what does its nature differ from love founded in long observation and
slow growth? Perhaps its effects are not so permanent; but they are,
while they last, as violent and intense. We walk the pathless mazes of
society, vacant of joy, till we hold this clue, leading us through that
labyrinth to paradise. Our nature dim, like to an unlighted torch,
sleeps in formless blank till the fire attain it; this life of life,
this light to moon, and glory to the sun. What does it matter, whether
the fire be struck from flint and steel, nourished with care into a
flame, slowly communicated to the dark wick, or whether swiftly the
radiant power of light and warmth passes from a kindred power, and
shines at once the beacon and the hope. In the deepest fountain of my
heart the pulses were stirred; around, above, beneath, the clinging
Memory as a cloak enwrapt me. In no one moment of coming time did I
feel as I had done in time gone by. The spirit of Idris hovered in the
air I breathed; her eyes were ever and for ever bent on mine; her
remembered smile blinded my faint gaze, and caused me to walk as one,
not in eclipse, not in darkness and vacancy—but in a new and brilliant
light, too novel, too dazzling for my human senses. On every leaf, on
every small division of the universe, (as on the hyacinth ας is
engraved) was imprinted the talisman of my existence—SHE LIVES! SHE IS!
—I had not time yet to analyze my feeling, to take myself to task, and
leash in the tameless passion; all was one idea, one feeling, one
knowledge —it was my life!
But the die was cast—Raymond would marry Idris. The merry marriage
bells rung in my ears; I heard the nation’s gratulation which followed
the union; the ambitious noble uprose with swift eagle-flight, from the
lowly ground to regal supremacy—and to the love of Idris. Yet, not so!
She did not love him; she had called me her friend; she had smiled on
me; to me she had entrusted her heart’s dearest hope, the welfare of
Adrian. This reflection thawed my congealing blood, and again the tide
of life and love flowed impetuously onward, again to ebb as my busy
thoughts changed.
The debate had ended at three in the morning. My soul was in tumults; I
traversed the streets with eager rapidity. Truly, I was mad that night—
love—which I have named a giant from its birth, wrestled with despair!
My heart, the field of combat, was wounded by the iron heel of the one,
watered by the gushing tears of the other. Day, hateful to me, dawned;
I retreated to my lodgings—I threw myself on a couch—I slept—was it
sleep?—for thought was still alive—love and despair struggled still,
and I writhed with unendurable pain.
I awoke half stupefied; I felt a heavy oppression on me, but knew not
wherefore; I entered, as it were, the council-chamber of my brain, and
questioned the various ministers of thought therein assembled; too soon
I remembered all; too soon my limbs quivered beneath the tormenting
power; soon, too soon, I knew myself a slave!
Suddenly, unannounced, Lord Raymond entered my apartment. He came in
gaily, singing the Tyrolese song of liberty; noticed me with a gracious
nod, and threw himself on a sopha opposite the copy of a bust of the
Apollo Belvidere. After one or two trivial remarks, to which I sullenly
replied, he suddenly cried, looking at the bust, “I am called like that
victor! Not a bad idea; the head will serve for my new coinage, and be
an omen to all dutiful subjects of my future success.”
He said this in his most gay, yet benevolent manner, and smiled, not
disdainfully, but in playful mockery of himself. Then his countenance
suddenly darkened, and in that shrill tone peculiar to himself, he
cried, “I fought a good battle last night; higher conquest the plains
of Greece never saw me achieve. Now I am the first man in the state,
burthen of every ballad, and object of old women’s mumbled devotions.
What are your meditations? You, who fancy that you can read the human
soul, as your native lake reads each crevice and folding of its
surrounding hills—say what you think of me; king-expectant, angel or
devil, which?”
This ironical tone was discord to my bursting, over-boiling-heart; I
was nettled by his insolence, and replied with bitterness; “There is a
spirit, neither angel or devil, damned to limbo merely.” I saw his
cheeks become pale, and his lips whiten and quiver; his anger served
but to enkindle mine, and I answered with a determined look his eyes
which glared on me; suddenly they were withdrawn, cast down, a tear, I
thought, wetted the dark lashes; I was softened, and with involuntary
emotion added, “Not that you are such, my dear lord.”
I paused, even awed by the agitation he evinced; “Yes,” he said at
length, rising and biting his lip, as he strove to curb his passion;
“Such am I! You do not know me, Verney; neither you, nor our audience
of last night, nor does universal England know aught of me. I stand
here, it would seem, an elected king; this hand is about to grasp a
sceptre; these brows feel in each nerve the coming diadem. I appear to
have strength, power, victory; standing as a dome-supporting column
stands; and I am—a reed! I have ambition, and that attains its aim; my
nightly dreams are realized, my waking hopes fulfilled; a kingdom
awaits my acceptance, my enemies are overthrown. But here,” and he
struck his heart with violence, “here is the rebel, here the
stumbling-block; this over-ruling heart, which I may drain of its
living blood; but, while one fluttering pulsation remains, I am its
slave.”
He spoke with a broken voice, then bowed his head, and, hiding his face
in his hands, wept. I was still smarting from my own disappointment;
yet this scene oppressed me even to terror, nor could I interrupt his
access of passion. It subsided at length; and, throwing himself on the
couch, he remained silent and motionless, except that his changeful
features shewed a strong internal conflict. At last he rose, and said
in his usual tone of voice, “The time grows on us, Verney, I must away.
Let me not forget my chiefest errand here. Will you accompany me to
Windsor to-morrow? You will not be dishonoured by my society, and as
this is probably the last service, or disservice you can do me, will
you grant my request?”
He held out his hand with almost a bashful air. Swiftly I thought—Yes,
I will witness the last scene of the drama. Beside which, his mien
conquered me, and an affectionate sentiment towards him, again filled
my heart—I bade him command me. “Aye, that I will,” said he gaily,
“that’s my cue now; be with me to-morrow morning by seven; be secret
and faithful; and you shall be groom of the stole ere long.”
So saying, he hastened away, vaulted on his horse, and with a gesture
as if he gave me his hand to kiss, bade me another laughing adieu. Left
to myself, I strove with painful intensity to divine the motive of his
request and foresee the events of the coming day. The hours passed on
unperceived; my head ached with thought, the nerves seemed teeming with
the over full fraught—I clasped my burning brow, as if my fevered hand
could medicine its pain. I was punctual to the appointed hour on the
following day, and found Lord Raymond waiting for me. We got into his
carriage, and proceeded towards Windsor. I had tutored myself, and was
resolved by no outward sign to disclose my internal agitation.
“What a mistake Ryland made,” said Raymond, “when he thought to
overpower me the other night. He spoke well, very well; such an
harangue would have succeeded better addressed to me singly, than to
the fools and knaves assembled yonder. Had I been alone, I should have
listened to him with a wish to hear reason, but when he endeavoured to
vanquish me in my own territory, with my own weapons, he put me on my
mettle, and the event was such as all might have expected.”
I smiled incredulously, and replied: “I am of Ryland’s way of thinking,
and will, if you please, repeat all his arguments; we shall see how far
you will be induced by them, to change the royal for the patriotic
style.”
“The repetition would be useless,” said Raymond, “since I well remember
them, and have many others, self-suggested, which speak with
unanswerable persuasion.”
He did not explain himself, nor did I make any remark on his reply. Our
silence endured for some miles, till the country with open fields, or
shady woods and parks, presented pleasant objects to our view. After
some observations on the scenery and seats, Raymond said: “Philosophers
have called man a microcosm of nature, and find a reflection in the
internal mind for all this machinery visibly at work around us. This
theory has often been a source of amusement to me; and many an idle
hour have I spent, exercising my ingenuity in finding resemblances.
Does not Lord Bacon say that, ‘the falling from a discord to a concord,
which maketh great sweetness in music, hath an agreement with the
affections, which are re-integrated to the better after some dislikes?’
What a sea is the tide of passion, whose fountains are in our own
nature! Our virtues are the quick-sands, which shew themselves at calm
and low water; but let the waves arise and the winds buffet them, and
the poor devil whose hope was in their durability, finds them sink from
under him. The fashions of the world, its exigencies, educations and
pursuits, are winds to drive our wills, like clouds all one way; but
let a thunderstorm arise in the shape of love, hate, or ambition, and
the rack goes backward, stemming the opposing air in triumph.”
“Yet,” replied I, “nature always presents to our eyes the appearance of
a patient: while there is an active principle in man which is capable
of ruling fortune, and at least of tacking against the gale, till it in
some mode conquers it.”
“There is more of what is specious than true in your distinction,” said
my companion. “Did we form ourselves, choosing our dispositions, and
our powers? I find myself, for one, as a stringed instrument with
chords and stops—but I have no power to turn the pegs, or pitch my
thoughts to a higher or lower key.”
“Other men,” I observed, “may be better musicians.”
“I talk not of others, but myself,” replied Raymond, “and I am as fair
an example to go by as another. I cannot set my heart to a particular
tune, or run voluntary changes on my will. We are born; we choose
neither our parents, nor our station; we are educated by others, or by
the world’s circumstance, and this cultivation, mingling with our
innate disposition, is the soil in which our desires, passions, and
motives grow.”
“There is much truth in what you say,” said I, “and yet no man ever
acts upon this theory. Who, when he makes a choice, says, Thus I
choose, because I am necessitated? Does he not on the contrary feel a
freedom of will within him, which, though you may call it fallacious,
still actuates him as he decides?”
“Exactly so,” replied Raymond, “another link of the breakless chain.
Were I now to commit an act which would annihilate my hopes, and pluck
the regal garment from my mortal limbs, to clothe them in ordinary
weeds, would this, think you, be an act of free-will on my part?”
As we talked thus, I perceived that we were not going the ordinary road
to Windsor, but through Englefield Green, towards Bishopgate Heath. I
began to divine that Idris was not the object of our journey, but that
I was brought to witness the scene that was to decide the fate of
Raymond—and of Perdita. Raymond had evidently vacillated during his
journey, and irresolution was marked in every gesture as we entered
Perdita’s cottage. I watched him curiously, determined that, if this
hesitation should continue, I would assist Perdita to overcome herself,
and teach her to disdain the wavering love of him, who balanced between
the possession of a crown, and of her, whose excellence and affection
transcended the worth of a kingdom.
We found her in her flower-adorned alcove; she was reading the
newspaper report of the debate in parliament, that apparently doomed
her to hopelessness. That heart-sinking feeling was painted in her sunk
eyes and spiritless attitude; a cloud was on her beauty, and frequent
sighs were tokens of her distress. This sight had an instantaneous
effect on Raymond; his eyes beamed with tenderness, and remorse clothed
his manners with earnestness and truth. He sat beside her; and, taking
the paper from her hand, said, “Not a word more shall my sweet Perdita
read of this contention of madmen and fools. I must not permit you to
be acquainted with the extent of my delusion, lest you despise me;
although, believe me, a wish to appear before you, not vanquished, but
as a conqueror, inspired me during my wordy war.”
Perdita looked at him like one amazed; her expressive countenance shone
for a moment with tenderness; to see him only was happiness. But a
bitter thought swiftly shadowed her joy; she bent her eyes on the
ground, endeavouring to master the passion of tears that threatened to
overwhelm her. Raymond continued, “I will not act a part with you, dear
girl, or appear other than what I am, weak and unworthy, more fit to
excite your disdain than your love. Yet you do love me; I feel and know
that you do, and thence I draw my most cherished hopes. If pride guided
you, or even reason, you might well reject me. Do so; if your high
heart, incapable of my infirmity of purpose, refuses to bend to the
lowness of mine. Turn from me, if you will,—if you can. If your whole
soul does not urge you to forgive me—if your entire heart does not open
wide its door to admit me to its very centre, forsake me, never speak
to me again. I, though sinning against you almost beyond remission, I
also am proud; there must be no reserve in your pardon—no drawback to
the gift of your affection.”
Perdita looked down, confused, yet pleased. My presence embarrassed
her; so that she dared not turn to meet her lover’s eye, or trust her
voice to assure him of her affection; while a blush mantled her cheek,
and her disconsolate air was exchanged for one expressive of deep-felt
joy. Raymond encircled her waist with his arm, and continued, “I do not
deny that I have balanced between you and the highest hope that mortal
men can entertain; but I do so no longer. Take me—mould me to your
will, possess my heart and soul to all eternity. If you refuse to
contribute to my happiness, I quit England to-night, and will never set
foot in it again.
“Lionel, you hear: witness for me: persuade your sister to forgive the
injury I have done her; persuade her to be mine.”
“There needs no persuasion,” said the blushing Perdita, “except your
own dear promises, and my ready heart, which whispers to me that they
are true.”
That same evening we all three walked together in the forest, and, with
the garrulity which happiness inspires, they detailed to me the history
of their loves. It was pleasant to see the haughty Raymond and reserved
Perdita changed through happy love into prattling, playful children,
both losing their characteristic dignity in the fulness of mutual
contentment. A night or two ago Lord Raymond, with a brow of care, and
a heart oppressed with thought, bent all his energies to silence or
persuade the legislators of England that a sceptre was not too weighty
for his hand, while visions of dominion, war, and triumph floated
before him; now, frolicsome as a lively boy sporting under his mother’s
approving eye, the hopes of his ambition were complete, when he pressed
the small fair hand of Perdita to his lips; while she, radiant with
delight, looked on the still pool, not truly admiring herself, but
drinking in with rapture the reflection there made of the form of
herself and her lover, shewn for the first time in dear conjunction.
I rambled away from them. If the rapture of assured sympathy was
theirs, I enjoyed that of restored hope. I looked on the regal towers
of Windsor. High is the wall and strong the barrier that separate me
from my Star of Beauty. But not impassible. She will not be his. A few
more years dwell in thy native garden, sweet flower, till I by toil and
time acquire a right to gather thee. Despair not, nor bid me despair!
What must I do now? First I must seek Adrian, and restore him to her.
Patience, gentleness, and untired affection, shall recall him, if it be
true, as Raymond says, that he is mad; energy and courage shall rescue
him, if he be unjustly imprisoned.
After the lovers again joined me, we supped together in the alcove.
Truly it was a fairy’s supper; for though the air was perfumed by the
scent of fruits and wine, we none of us either ate or drank—even the
beauty of the night was unobserved; their extasy could not be increased
by outward objects, and I was wrapt in reverie. At about midnight
Raymond and I took leave of my sister, to return to town. He was all
gaiety; scraps of songs fell from his lips; every thought of his
mind—every object about us, gleamed under the sunshine of his mirth. He
accused me of melancholy, of ill-humour and envy.
“Not so,” said I, “though I confess that my thoughts are not occupied
as pleasantly as yours are. You promised to facilitate my visit to
Adrian; I conjure you to perform your promise. I cannot linger here; I
long to soothe —perhaps to cure the malady of my first and best friend.
I shall immediately depart for Dunkeld.”
“Thou bird of night,” replied Raymond, “what an eclipse do you throw
across my bright thoughts, forcing me to call to mind that melancholy
ruin, which stands in mental desolation, more irreparable than a
fragment of a carved column in a weed-grown field. You dream that you
can restore him? Daedalus never wound so inextricable an error round
Minotaur, as madness has woven about his imprisoned reason. Nor you,
nor any other Theseus, can thread the labyrinth, to which perhaps some
unkind Ariadne has the clue.”
“You allude to Evadne Zaimi: but she is not in England.”
“And were she,” said Raymond, “I would not advise her seeing him.
Better to decay in absolute delirium, than to be the victim of the
methodical unreason of ill-bestowed love. The long duration of his
malady has probably erased from his mind all vestige of her; and it
were well that it should never again be imprinted. You will find him at
Dunkeld; gentle and tractable he wanders up the hills, and through the
wood, or sits listening beside the waterfall. You may see him—his hair
stuck with wild flowers —his eyes full of untraceable meaning—his voice
broken—his person wasted to a shadow. He plucks flowers and weeds, and
weaves chaplets of them, or sails yellow leaves and bits of bark on the
stream, rejoicing in their safety, or weeping at their wreck. The very
memory half unmans me. By Heaven! the first tears I have shed since
boyhood rushed scalding into my eyes when I saw him.”
It needed not this last account to spur me on to visit him. I only
doubted whether or not I should endeavour to see Idris again, before I
departed. This doubt was decided on the following day. Early in the
morning Raymond came to me; intelligence had arrived that Adrian was
dangerously ill, and it appeared impossible that his failing strength
should surmount the disorder. “To-morrow,” said Raymond, “his mother
and sister set out for Scotland to see him once again.”
“And I go to-day,” I cried; “this very hour I will engage a sailing
balloon; I shall be there in forty-eight hours at furthest, perhaps in
less, if the wind is fair. Farewell, Raymond; be happy in having chosen
the better part in life. This turn of fortune revives me. I feared
madness, not sickness—I have a presentiment that Adrian will not die;
perhaps this illness is a crisis, and he may recover.”
Everything favoured my journey. The balloon rose about half a mile from
the earth, and with a favourable wind it hurried through the air, its
feathered vans cleaving the unopposing atmosphere. Notwithstanding the
melancholy object of my journey, my spirits were exhilarated by
reviving hope, by the swift motion of the airy pinnace, and the balmy
visitation of the sunny air. The pilot hardly moved the plumed
steerage, and the slender mechanism of the wings, wide unfurled, gave
forth a murmuring noise, soothing to the sense. Plain and hill, stream
and corn-field, were discernible below, while we unimpeded sped on
swift and secure, as a wild swan in his spring-tide flight. The machine
obeyed the slightest motion of the helm; and, the wind blowing
steadily, there was no let or obstacle to our course. Such was the
power of man over the elements; a power long sought, and lately won;
yet foretold in by-gone time by the prince of poets, whose verses I
quoted much to the astonishment of my pilot, when I told him how many
hundred years ago they had been written:—
Oh! human wit, thou can’st invent much ill,
Thou searchest strange arts: who would think by skill,
An heavy man like a light bird should stray,
And through the empty heavens find a way?
I alighted at Perth; and, though much fatigued by a constant exposure
to the air for many hours, I would not rest, but merely altering my
mode of conveyance, I went by land instead of air, to Dunkeld. The sun
was rising as I entered the opening of the hills. After the revolution
of ages Birnam hill was again covered with a young forest, while more
aged pines, planted at the very commencement of the nineteenth century
by the then Duke of Athol, gave solemnity and beauty to the scene. The
rising sun first tinged the pine tops; and my mind, rendered through my
mountain education deeply susceptible of the graces of nature, and now
on the eve of again beholding my beloved and perhaps dying friend, was
strangely influenced by the sight of those distant beams: surely they
were ominous, and as such I regarded them, good omens for Adrian, on
whose life my happiness depended.
Poor fellow! he lay stretched on a bed of sickness, his cheeks glowing
with the hues of fever, his eyes half closed, his breath irregular and
difficult. Yet it was less painful to see him thus, than to find him
fulfilling the animal functions uninterruptedly, his mind sick the
while. I established myself at his bedside; I never quitted it day or
night. Bitter task was it, to behold his spirit waver between death and
life: to see his warm cheek, and know that the very fire which burned
too fiercely there, was consuming the vital fuel; to hear his moaning
voice, which might never again articulate words of love and wisdom; to
witness the ineffectual motions of his limbs, soon to be wrapt in their
mortal shroud. Such for three days and nights appeared the consummation
which fate had decreed for my labours, and I became haggard and
spectre-like, through anxiety and watching. At length his eyes unclosed
faintly, yet with a look of returning life; he became pale and weak;
but the rigidity of his features was softened by approaching
convalescence. He knew me. What a brimful cup of joyful agony it was,
when his face first gleamed with the glance of recognition—when he
pressed my hand, now more fevered than his own, and when he pronounced
my name! No trace of his past insanity remained, to dash my joy with
sorrow.
This same evening his mother and sister arrived. The Countess of
Windsor was by nature full of energetic feeling; but she had very
seldom in her life permitted the concentrated emotions of her heart to
shew themselves on her features. The studied immovability of her
countenance; her slow, equable manner, and soft but unmelodious voice,
were a mask, hiding her fiery passions, and the impatience of her
disposition. She did not in the least resemble either of her children;
her black and sparkling eye, lit up by pride, was totally unlike the
blue lustre, and frank, benignant expression of either Adrian or Idris.
There was something grand and majestic in her motions, but nothing
persuasive, nothing amiable. Tall, thin, and strait, her face still
handsome, her raven hair hardly tinged with grey, her forehead arched
and beautiful, had not the eye-brows been somewhat scattered—it was
impossible not to be struck by her, almost to fear her. Idris appeared
to be the only being who could resist her mother, notwithstanding the
extreme mildness of her character. But there was a fearlessness and
frankness about her, which said that she would not encroach on
another’s liberty, but held her own sacred and unassailable.
The Countess cast no look of kindness on my worn-out frame, though
afterwards she thanked me coldly for my attentions. Not so Idris; her
first glance was for her brother; she took his hand, she kissed his
eye-lids, and hung over him with looks of compassion and love. Her eyes
glistened with tears when she thanked me, and the grace of her
expressions was enhanced, not diminished, by the fervour, which caused
her almost to falter as she spoke. Her mother, all eyes and ears, soon
interrupted us; and I saw, that she wished to dismiss me quietly, as
one whose services, now that his relatives had arrived, were of no use
to her son. I was harassed and ill, resolved not to give up my post,
yet doubting in what way I should assert it; when Adrian called me, and
clasping my hand, bade me not leave him. His mother, apparently
inattentive, at once understood what was meant, and seeing the hold we
had upon her, yielded the point to us.
The days that followed were full of pain to me; so that I sometimes
regretted that I had not yielded at once to the haughty lady, who
watched all my motions, and turned my beloved task of nursing my friend
to a work of pain and irritation. Never did any woman appear so
entirely made of mind, as the Countess of Windsor. Her passions had
subdued her appetites, even her natural wants; she slept little, and
hardly ate at all; her body was evidently considered by her as a mere
machine, whose health was necessary for the accomplishment of her
schemes, but whose senses formed no part of her enjoyment. There is
something fearful in one who can thus conquer the animal part of our
nature, if the victory be not the effect of consummate virtue; nor was
it without a mixture of this feeling, that I beheld the figure of the
Countess awake when others slept, fasting when I, abstemious naturally,
and rendered so by the fever that preyed on me, was forced to recruit
myself with food. She resolved to prevent or diminish my opportunities
of acquiring influence over her children, and circumvented my plans by
a hard, quiet, stubborn resolution, that seemed not to belong to flesh
and blood. War was at last tacitly acknowledged between us. We had many
pitched battles, during which no word was spoken, hardly a look was
interchanged, but in which each resolved not to submit to the other.
The Countess had the advantage of position; so I was vanquished, though
I would not yield.
I became sick at heart. My countenance was painted with the hues of ill
health and vexation. Adrian and Idris saw this; they attributed it to
my long watching and anxiety; they urged me to rest, and take care of
myself, while I most truly assured them, that my best medicine was
their good wishes; those, and the assured convalescence of my friend,
now daily more apparent. The faint rose again blushed on his cheek; his
brow and lips lost the ashy paleness of threatened dissolution; such
was the dear reward of my unremitting attention—and bounteous heaven
added overflowing recompence, when it gave me also the thanks and
smiles of Idris.
After the lapse of a few weeks, we left Dunkeld. Idris and her mother
returned immediately to Windsor, while Adrian and I followed by slow
journies and frequent stoppages, occasioned by his continued weakness.
As we traversed the various counties of fertile England, all wore an
exhilarating appearance to my companion, who had been so long secluded
by disease from the enjoyments of weather and scenery. We passed
through busy towns and cultivated plains. The husbandmen were getting
in their plenteous harvests, and the women and children, occupied by
light rustic toils, formed groupes of happy, healthful persons, the
very sight of whom carried cheerfulness to the heart. One evening,
quitting our inn, we strolled down a shady lane, then up a grassy
slope, till we came to an eminence, that commanded an extensive view of
hill and dale, meandering rivers, dark woods, and shining villages. The
sun was setting; and the clouds, straying, like new-shorn sheep,
through the vast fields of sky, received the golden colour of his
parting beams; the distant uplands shone out, and the busy hum of
evening came, harmonized by distance, on our ear. Adrian, who felt all
the fresh spirit infused by returning health, clasped his hands in
delight, and exclaimed with transport:
“O happy earth, and happy inhabitants of earth! A stately palace has
God built for you, O man! and worthy are you of your dwelling! Behold
the verdant carpet spread at our feet, and the azure canopy above; the
fields of earth which generate and nurture all things, and the track of
heaven, which contains and clasps all things. Now, at this evening
hour, at the period of repose and refection, methinks all hearts
breathe one hymn of love and thanksgiving, and we, like priests of old
on the mountain-tops, give a voice to their sentiment.
“Assuredly a most benignant power built up the majestic fabric we
inhabit, and framed the laws by which it endures. If mere existence,
and not happiness, had been the final end of our being, what need of
the profuse luxuries which we enjoy? Why should our dwelling place be
so lovely, and why should the instincts of nature minister pleasurable
sensations? The very sustaining of our animal machine is made
delightful; and our sustenance, the fruits of the field, is painted
with transcendant hues, endued with grateful odours, and palatable to
our taste. Why should this be, if HE were not good? We need houses to
protect us from the seasons, and behold the materials with which we are
provided; the growth of trees with their adornment of leaves; while
rocks of stone piled above the plains variegate the prospect with their
pleasant irregularity.
“Nor are outward objects alone the receptacles of the Spirit of Good.
Look into the mind of man, where wisdom reigns enthroned; where
imagination, the painter, sits, with his pencil dipt in hues lovelier
than those of sunset, adorning familiar life with glowing tints. What a
noble boon, worthy the giver, is the imagination! it takes from reality
its leaden hue: it envelopes all thought and sensation in a radiant
veil, and with an hand of beauty beckons us from the sterile seas of
life, to her gardens, and bowers, and glades of bliss. And is not love
a gift of the divinity? Love, and her child, Hope, which can bestow
wealth on poverty, strength on the weak, and happiness on the
sorrowing.
“My lot has not been fortunate. I have consorted long with grief,
entered the gloomy labyrinth of madness, and emerged, but half alive.
Yet I thank God that I have lived! I thank God, that I have beheld his
throne, the heavens, and earth, his footstool. I am glad that I have
seen the changes of his day; to behold the sun, fountain of light, and
the gentle pilgrim moon; to have seen the fire bearing flowers of the
sky, and the flowery stars of earth; to have witnessed the sowing and
the harvest. I am glad that I have loved, and have experienced
sympathetic joy and sorrow with my fellow-creatures. I am glad now to
feel the current of thought flow through my mind, as the blood through
the articulations of my frame; mere existence is pleasure; and I thank
God that I live!
“And all ye happy nurslings of mother-earth, do ye not echo my words?
Ye who are linked by the affectionate ties of nature, companions,
friends, lovers! fathers, who toil with joy for their offspring; women,
who while gazing on the living forms of their children, forget the
pains of maternity; children, who neither toil nor spin, but love and
are loved!
“Oh, that death and sickness were banished from our earthly home! that
hatred, tyranny, and fear could no longer make their lair in the human
heart! that each man might find a brother in his fellow, and a nest of
repose amid the wide plains of his inheritance! that the source of
tears were dry, and that lips might no longer form expressions of
sorrow. Sleeping thus under the beneficent eye of heaven, can evil
visit thee, O Earth, or grief cradle to their graves thy luckless
children? Whisper it not, let the demons hear and rejoice! The choice
is with us; let us will it, and our habitation becomes a paradise. For
the will of man is omnipotent, blunting the arrows of death, soothing
the bed of disease, and wiping away the tears of agony. And what is
each human being worth, if he do not put forth his strength to aid his
fellow-creatures? My soul is a fading spark, my nature frail as a spent
wave; but I dedicate all of intellect and strength that remains to me,
to that one work, and take upon me the task, as far as I am able, of
bestowing blessings on my fellow-men!”
His voice trembled, his eyes were cast up, his hands clasped, and his
fragile person was bent, as it were, with excess of emotion. The spirit
of life seemed to linger in his form, as a dying flame on an altar
flickers on the embers of an accepted sacrifice.
CHAPTER V.
When we arrived at Windsor, I found that Raymond and Perdita had
departed for the continent. I took possession of my sister’s cottage,
and blessed myself that I lived within view of Windsor Castle. It was a
curious fact, that at this period, when by the marriage of Perdita I
was allied to one of the richest individuals in England, and was bound
by the most intimate friendship to its chiefest noble, I experienced
the greatest excess of poverty that I had ever known. My knowledge of
the worldly principles of Lord Raymond, would have ever prevented me
from applying to him, however deep my distress might have been. It was
in vain that I repeated to myself with regard to Adrian, that his purse
was open to me; that one in soul, as we were, our fortunes ought also
to be common. I could never, while with him, think of his bounty as a
remedy to my poverty; and I even put aside hastily his offers of
supplies, assuring him of a falsehood, that I needed them not. How
could I say to this generous being, “Maintain me in idleness. You who
have dedicated your powers of mind and fortune to the benefit of your
species, shall you so misdirect your exertions, as to support in
uselessness the strong, healthy, and capable?”
And yet I dared not request him to use his influence that I might
obtain an honourable provision for myself—for then I should have been
obliged to leave Windsor. I hovered for ever around the walls of its
Castle, beneath its enshadowing thickets; my sole companions were my
books and my loving thoughts. I studied the wisdom of the ancients, and
gazed on the happy walls that sheltered the beloved of my soul. My mind
was nevertheless idle. I pored over the poetry of old times; I studied
the metaphysics of Plato and Berkeley. I read the histories of Greece
and Rome, and of England’s former periods, and I watched the movements
of the lady of my heart. At night I could see her shadow on the walls
of her apartment; by day I viewed her in her flower-garden, or riding
in the park with her usual companions. Methought the charm would be
broken if I were seen, but I heard the music of her voice and was
happy. I gave to each heroine of whom I read, her beauty and matchless
excellences—such was Antigone, when she guided the blind Œdipus to the
grove of the Eumenides, and discharged the funeral rites of Polynices;
such was Miranda in the unvisited cave of Prospero; such Haidee, on the
sands of the Ionian island. I was mad with excess of passionate
devotion; but pride, tameless as fire, invested my nature, and
prevented me from betraying myself by word or look.
In the mean time, while I thus pampered myself with rich mental
repasts, a peasant would have disdained my scanty fare, which I
sometimes robbed from the squirrels of the forest. I was, I own, often
tempted to recur to the lawless feats of my boy-hood, and knock down
the almost tame pheasants that perched upon the trees, and bent their
bright eyes on me. But they were the property of Adrian, the nurslings
of Idris; and so, although my imagination rendered sensual by
privation, made me think that they would better become the spit in my
kitchen, than the green leaves of the forest,
Nathelesse,
I checked my haughty will, and did not eat;
but supped upon sentiment, and dreamt vainly of “such morsels sweet,”
as I might not waking attain.
But, at this period, the whole scheme of my existence was about to
change. The orphan and neglected son of Verney, was on the eve of being
linked to the mechanism of society by a golden chain, and to enter into
all the duties and affections of life. Miracles were to be wrought in
my favour, the machine of social life pushed with vast effort backward.
Attend, O reader! while I narrate this tale of wonders!
One day as Adrian and Idris were riding through the forest, with their
mother and accustomed companions, Idris, drawing her brother aside from
the rest of the cavalcade, suddenly asked him, “What had become of his
friend, Lionel Verney?”
“Even from this spot,” replied Adrian, pointing to my sister’s cottage,
“you can see his dwelling.”
“Indeed!” said Idris, “and why, if he be so near, does he not come to
see us, and make one of our society?”
“I often visit him,” replied Adrian; “but you may easily guess the
motives, which prevent him from coming where his presence may annoy any
one among us.”
“I do guess them,” said Idris, “and such as they are, I would not
venture to combat them. Tell me, however, in what way he passes his
time; what he is doing and thinking in his cottage retreat?”
“Nay, my sweet sister,” replied Adrian, “you ask me more than I can
well answer; but if you feel interest in him, why not visit him? He
will feel highly honoured, and thus you may repay a part of the
obligation I owe him, and compensate for the injuries fortune has done
him.”
“I will most readily accompany you to his abode,” said the lady, “not
that I wish that either of us should unburthen ourselves of our debt,
which, being no less than your life, must remain unpayable ever. But
let us go; to-morrow we will arrange to ride out together, and
proceeding towards that part of the forest, call upon him.”
The next evening therefore, though the autumnal change had brought on
cold and rain, Adrian and Idris entered my cottage. They found me
Curius-like, feasting on sorry fruits for supper; but they brought
gifts richer than the golden bribes of the Sabines, nor could I refuse
the invaluable store of friendship and delight which they bestowed.
Surely the glorious twins of Latona were not more welcome, when, in the
infancy of the world, they were brought forth to beautify and enlighten
this “sterile promontory,” than were this angelic pair to my lowly
dwelling and grateful heart. We sat like one family round my hearth.
Our talk was on subjects, unconnected with the emotions that evidently
occupied each; but we each divined the other’s thought, and as our
voices spoke of indifferent matters, our eyes, in mute language, told a
thousand things no tongue could have uttered.
They left me in an hour’s time. They left me happy—how unspeakably
happy. It did not require the measured sounds of human language to
syllable the story of my extasy. Idris had visited me; Idris I should
again and again see—my imagination did not wander beyond the
completeness of this knowledge. I trod air; no doubt, no fear, no hope
even, disturbed me; I clasped with my soul the fulness of contentment,
satisfied, undesiring, beatified.
For many days Adrian and Idris continued to visit me thus. In this dear
intercourse, love, in the guise of enthusiastic friendship, infused
more and more of his omnipotent spirit. Idris felt it. Yes, divinity of
the world, I read your characters in her looks and gesture; I heard
your melodious voice echoed by her—you prepared for us a soft and
flowery path, all gentle thoughts adorned it—your name, O Love, was not
spoken, but you stood the Genius of the Hour, veiled, and time, but no
mortal hand, might raise the curtain. Organs of articulate sound did
not proclaim the union of our hearts; for untoward circumstance allowed
no opportunity for the expression that hovered on our lips. Oh my pen!
haste thou to write what was, before the thought of what is, arrests
the hand that guides thee. If I lift up my eyes and see the desart
earth, and feel that those dear eyes have spent their mortal lustre,
and that those beauteous lips are silent, their “crimson leaves” faded,
for ever I am mute!
But you live, my Idris, even now you move before me! There was a glade,
O reader! a grassy opening in the wood; the retiring trees left its
velvet expanse as a temple for love; the silver Thames bounded it on
one side, and a willow bending down dipt in the water its Naiad hair,
dishevelled by the wind’s viewless hand. The oaks around were the home
of a tribe of nightingales—there am I now; Idris, in youth’s dear
prime, is by my side —remember, I am just twenty-two, and seventeen
summers have scarcely passed over the beloved of my heart. The river
swollen by autumnal rains, deluged the low lands, and Adrian in his
favourite boat is employed in the dangerous pastime of plucking the
topmost bough from a submerged oak. Are you weary of life, O Adrian,
that you thus play with danger?—
He has obtained his prize, and he pilots his boat through the flood;
our eyes were fixed on him fearfully, but the stream carried him away
from us; he was forced to land far lower down, and to make a
considerable circuit before he could join us. “He is safe!” said Idris,
as he leapt on shore, and waved the bough over his head in token of
success; “we will wait for him here.”
We were alone together; the sun had set; the song of the nightingales
began; the evening star shone distinct in the flood of light, which was
yet unfaded in the west. The blue eyes of my angelic girl were fixed on
this sweet emblem of herself: “How the light palpitates,” she said,
“which is that star’s life. Its vacillating effulgence seems to say
that its state, even like ours upon earth, is wavering and inconstant;
it fears, methinks, and it loves.”
“Gaze not on the star, dear, generous friend,” I cried, “read not love
in _its_ trembling rays; look not upon distant worlds; speak not of the
mere imagination of a sentiment. I have long been silent; long even to
sickness have I desired to speak to you, and submit my soul, my life,
my entire being to you. Look not on the star, dear love, or do, and let
that eternal spark plead for me; let it be my witness and my advocate,
silent as it shines—love is to me as light to the star; even so long as
that is uneclipsed by annihilation, so long shall I love you.”
Veiled for ever to the world’s callous eye must be the transport of
that moment. Still do I feel her graceful form press against my
full-fraught heart—still does sight, and pulse, and breath sicken and
fail, at the remembrance of that first kiss. Slowly and silently we
went to meet Adrian, whom we heard approaching.
I entreated Adrian to return to me after he had conducted his sister
home. And that same evening, walking among the moon-lit forest paths, I
poured forth my whole heart, its transport and its hope, to my friend.
For a moment he looked disturbed—“I might have foreseen this,” he said,
“what strife will now ensue! Pardon me, Lionel, nor wonder that the
expectation of contest with my mother should jar me, when else I should
delightedly confess that my best hopes are fulfilled, in confiding my
sister to your protection. If you do not already know it, you will soon
learn the deep hate my mother bears to the name Verney. I will converse
with Idris; then all that a friend can do, I will do; to her it must
belong to play the lover’s part, if she be capable of it.”
While the brother and sister were still hesitating in what manner they
could best attempt to bring their mother over to their party, she,
suspecting our meetings, taxed her children with them; taxed her fair
daughter with deceit, and an unbecoming attachment for one whose only
merit was being the son of the profligate favourite of her imprudent
father; and who was doubtless as worthless as he from whom he boasted
his descent. The eyes of Idris flashed at this accusation; she replied,
“I do not deny that I love Verney; prove to me that he is worthless;
and I will never see him more.”
“Dear Madam,” said Adrian, “let me entreat you to see him, to cultivate
his friendship. You will wonder then, as I do, at the extent of his
accomplishments, and the brilliancy of his talents.” (Pardon me, gentle
reader, this is not futile vanity;—not futile, since to know that
Adrian felt thus, brings joy even now to my lone heart).
“Mad and foolish boy!” exclaimed the angry lady, “you have chosen with
dreams and theories to overthrow my schemes for your own
aggrandizement; but you shall not do the same by those I have formed
for your sister. I but too well understand the fascination you both
labour under; since I had the same struggle with your father, to make
him cast off the parent of this youth, who hid his evil propensities
with the smoothness and subtlety of a viper. In those days how often
did I hear of his attractions, his wide spread conquests, his wit, his
refined manners. It is well when flies only are caught by such spiders’
webs; but is it for the high-born and powerful to bow their necks to
the flimsy yoke of these unmeaning pretensions? Were your sister indeed
the insignificant person she deserves to be, I would willingly leave
her to the fate, the wretched fate, of the wife of a man, whose very
person, resembling as it does his wretched father, ought to remind you
of the folly and vice it typifies—but remember, Lady Idris, it is not
alone the once royal blood of England that colours your veins, you are
a Princess of Austria, and every life-drop is akin to emperors and
kings. Are you then a fit mate for an uneducated shepherd-boy, whose
only inheritance is his father’s tarnished name?”
“I can make but one defence,” replied Idris, “the same offered by my
brother; see Lionel, converse with my shepherd-boy”—-The Countess
interrupted her indignantly—“Yours!”—she cried: and then, smoothing her
impassioned features to a disdainful smile, she continued—“We will talk
of this another time. All I now ask, all your mother, Idris, requests
is, that you will not see this upstart during the interval of one
month.”
“I dare not comply,” said Idris, “it would pain him too much. I have no
right to play with his feelings, to accept his proffered love, and then
sting him with neglect.”
“This is going too far,” her mother answered, with quivering lips, and
eyes again instinct by anger.
“Nay, Madam,” said Adrian, “unless my sister consent never to see him
again, it is surely an useless torment to separate them for a month.”
“Certainly,” replied the ex-queen, with bitter scorn, “his love, and
her love, and both their childish flutterings, are to be put in fit
comparison with my years of hope and anxiety, with the duties of the
offspring of kings, with the high and dignified conduct which one of
her descent ought to pursue. But it is unworthy of me to argue and
complain. Perhaps you will have the goodness to promise me not to marry
during that interval?”
This was asked only half ironically; and Idris wondered why her mother
should extort from her a solemn vow not to do, what she had never
dreamed of doing—but the promise was required and given.
All went on cheerfully now; we met as usual, and talked without dread
of our future plans. The Countess was so gentle, and even beyond her
wont, amiable with her children, that they began to entertain hopes of
her ultimate consent. She was too unlike them, too utterly alien to
their tastes, for them to find delight in her society, or in the
prospect of its continuance, but it gave them pleasure to see her
conciliating and kind. Once even, Adrian ventured to propose her
receiving me. She refused with a smile, reminding him that for the
present his sister had promised to be patient.
One day, after the lapse of nearly a month, Adrian received a letter
from a friend in London, requesting his immediate presence for the
furtherance of some important object. Guileless himself, Adrian feared
no deceit. I rode with him as far as Staines: he was in high spirits;
and, since I could not see Idris during his absence, he promised a
speedy return. His gaiety, which was extreme, had the strange effect of
awakening in me contrary feelings; a presentiment of evil hung over me;
I loitered on my return; I counted the hours that must elapse before I
saw Idris again. Wherefore should this be? What evil might not happen
in the mean time? Might not her mother take advantage of Adrian’s
absence to urge her beyond her sufferance, perhaps to entrap her? I
resolved, let what would befall, to see and converse with her the
following day. This determination soothed me. To-morrow, loveliest and
best, hope and joy of my life, to-morrow I will see thee—Fool, to dream
of a moment’s delay!
I went to rest. At past midnight I was awaked by a violent knocking. It
was now deep winter; it had snowed, and was still snowing; the wind
whistled in the leafless trees, despoiling them of the white flakes as
they fell; its drear moaning, and the continued knocking, mingled
wildly with my dreams— at length I was wide awake; hastily dressing
myself, I hurried to discover the cause of this disturbance, and to
open my door to the unexpected visitor. Pale as the snow that showered
about her, with clasped hands, Idris stood before me. “Save me!” she
exclaimed, and would have sunk to the ground had I not supported her.
In a moment however she revived, and, with energy, almost with
violence, entreated me to saddle horses, to take her away, away to
London—to her brother—at least to save her. I had no horses—she wrung
her hands. “What can I do?” she cried, “I am lost—we are both for ever
lost! But come—come with me, Lionel; here I must not stay,—we can get a
chaise at the nearest post-house; yet perhaps we have time! come, O
come with me to save and protect me!”
When I heard her piteous demands, while with disordered dress,
dishevelled hair, and aghast looks, she wrung her hands—the idea shot
across me is she also mad?—“Sweet one,” and I folded her to my heart,
“better repose than wander further;—rest—my beloved, I will make a
fire—you are chill.”
“Rest!” she cried, “repose! you rave, Lionel! If you delay we are lost;
come, I pray you, unless you would cast me off for ever.”
That Idris, the princely born, nursling of wealth and luxury, should
have come through the tempestuous winter-night from her regal abode,
and standing at my lowly door, conjure me to fly with her through
darkness and storm—was surely a dream—again her plaintive tones, the
sight of her loveliness assured me that it was no vision. Looking
timidly around, as if she feared to be overheard, she whispered: “I
have discovered—to-morrow —that is, to-day—already the to-morrow is
come—before dawn, foreigners, Austrians, my mother’s hirelings, are to
carry me off to Germany, to prison, to marriage—to anything, except you
and my brother —take me away, or soon they will be here!”
I was frightened by her vehemence, and imagined some mistake in her
incoherent tale; but I no longer hesitated to obey her. She had come by
herself from the Castle, three long miles, at midnight, through the
heavy snow; we must reach Englefield Green, a mile and a half further,
before we could obtain a chaise. She told me, that she had kept up her
strength and courage till her arrival at my cottage, and then both
failed. Now she could hardly walk. Supporting her as I did, still she
lagged: and at the distance of half a mile, after many stoppages,
shivering fits, and half faintings, she slipt from my supporting arm on
the snow, and with a torrent of tears averred that she must be taken,
for that she could not proceed. I lifted her up in my arms; her light
form rested on my breast.—I felt no burthen, except the internal one of
contrary and contending emotions. Brimming delight now invested me.
Again her chill limbs touched me as a torpedo; and I shuddered in
sympathy with her pain and fright. Her head lay on my shoulder, her
breath waved my hair, her heart beat near mine, transport made me
tremble, blinded me, annihilated me—till a suppressed groan, bursting
from her lips, the chattering of her teeth, which she strove vainly to
subdue, and all the signs of suffering she evinced, recalled me to the
necessity of speed and succour. At last I said to her, “There is
Englefield Green; there the inn. But, if you are seen thus strangely
circumstanced, dear Idris, even now your enemies may learn your flight
too soon: were it not better that I hired the chaise alone? I will put
you in safety meanwhile, and return to you immediately.”
She answered that I was right, and might do with her as I pleased. I
observed the door of a small out-house a-jar. I pushed it open; and,
with some hay strewed about, I formed a couch for her, placing her
exhausted frame on it, and covering her with my cloak. I feared to
leave her, she looked so wan and faint—but in a moment she re-acquired
animation, and, with that, fear; and again she implored me not to
delay. To call up the people of the inn, and obtain a conveyance and
horses, even though I harnessed them myself, was the work of many
minutes; minutes, each freighted with the weight of ages. I caused the
chaise to advance a little, waited till the people of the inn had
retired, and then made the post-boy draw up the carriage to the spot
where Idris, impatient, and now somewhat recovered, stood waiting for
me. I lifted her into the chaise; I assured her that with our four
horses we should arrive in London before five o’clock, the hour when
she would be sought and missed. I besought her to calm herself; a
kindly shower of tears relieved her, and by degrees she related her
tale of fear and peril.
That same night after Adrian’s departure, her mother had warmly
expostulated with her on the subject of her attachment to me. Every
motive, every threat, every angry taunt was urged in vain. She seemed
to consider that through me she had lost Raymond; I was the evil
influence of her life; I was even accused of encreasing and confirming
the mad and base apostacy of Adrian from all views of advancement and
grandeur; and now this miserable mountaineer was to steal her daughter.
Never, Idris related, did the angry lady deign to recur to gentleness
and persuasion; if she had, the task of resistance would have been
exquisitely painful. As it was, the sweet girl’s generous nature was
roused to defend, and ally herself with, my despised cause. Her mother
ended with a look of contempt and covert triumph, which for a moment
awakened the suspicions of Idris. When they parted for the night, the
Countess said, “To-morrow I trust your tone will be changed: be
composed; I have agitated you; go to rest; and I will send you a
medicine I always take when unduly restless—it will give you a quiet
night.”
By the time that she had with uneasy thoughts laid her fair cheek upon
her pillow, her mother’s servant brought a draught; a suspicion again
crossed her at this novel proceeding, sufficiently alarming to
determine her not to take the potion; but dislike of contention, and a
wish to discover whether there was any just foundation for her
conjectures, made her, she said, almost instinctively, and in
contradiction to her usual frankness, pretend to swallow the medicine.
Then, agitated as she had been by her mother’s violence, and now by
unaccustomed fears, she lay unable to sleep, starting at every sound.
Soon her door opened softly, and on her springing up, she heard a
whisper, “Not asleep yet,” and the door again closed. With a beating
heart she expected another visit, and when after an interval her
chamber was again invaded, having first assured herself that the
intruders were her mother and an attendant, she composed herself to
feigned sleep. A step approached her bed, she dared not move, she
strove to calm her palpitations, which became more violent, when she
heard her mother say mutteringly, “Pretty simpleton, little do you
think that your game is already at an end for ever.”
For a moment the poor girl fancied that her mother believed that she
had drank poison: she was on the point of springing up; when the
Countess, already at a distance from the bed, spoke in a low voice to
her companion, and again Idris listened: “Hasten,” said she, “there is
no time to lose— it is long past eleven; they will be here at five;
take merely the clothes necessary for her journey, and her
jewel-casket.” The servant obeyed; few words were spoken on either
side; but those were caught at with avidity by the intended victim. She
heard the name of her own maid mentioned;—“No, no,” replied her mother,
“she does not go with us; Lady Idris must forget England, and all
belonging to it.” And again she heard, “She will not wake till late
to-morrow, and we shall then be at sea.”——“All is ready,” at length the
woman announced. The Countess again came to her daughter’s bedside: “In
Austria at least,” she said, “you will obey. In Austria, where
obedience can be enforced, and no choice left but between an honourable
prison and a fitting marriage.”
Both then withdrew; though, as she went, the Countess said, “Softly;
all sleep; though all have not been prepared for sleep, like her. I
would not have any one suspect, or she might be roused to resistance,
and perhaps escape. Come with me to my room; we will remain there till
the hour agreed upon.” They went. Idris, panic-struck, but animated and
strengthened even by her excessive fear, dressed herself hurriedly, and
going down a flight of back-stairs, avoiding the vicinity of her
mother’s apartment, she contrived to escape from the castle by a low
window, and came through snow, wind, and obscurity to my cottage; nor
lost her courage, until she arrived, and, depositing her fate in my
hands, gave herself up to the desperation and weariness that
overwhelmed her.
I comforted her as well as I might. Joy and exultation, were mine, to
possess, and to save her. Yet not to excite fresh agitation in her,
“_per non turbar quel bel viso sereno_,” I curbed my delight. I strove
to quiet the eager dancing of my heart; I turned from her my eyes,
beaming with too much tenderness, and proudly, to dark night, and the
inclement atmosphere, murmured the expressions of my transport. We
reached London, methought, all too soon; and yet I could not regret our
speedy arrival, when I witnessed the extasy with which my beloved girl
found herself in her brother’s arms, safe from every evil, under his
unblamed protection.
Adrian wrote a brief note to his mother, informing her that Idris was
under his care and guardianship. Several days elapsed, and at last an
answer came, dated from Cologne. “It was useless,” the haughty and
disappointed lady wrote, “for the Earl of Windsor and his sister to
address again the injured parent, whose only expectation of
tranquillity must be derived from oblivion of their existence. Her
desires had been blasted, her schemes overthrown. She did not complain;
in her brother’s court she would find, not compensation for their
disobedience (filial unkindness admitted of none), but such a state of
things and mode of life, as might best reconcile her to her fate. Under
such circumstances, she positively declined any communication with
them.”
Such were the strange and incredible events, that finally brought about
my union with the sister of my best friend, with my adored Idris. With
simplicity and courage she set aside the prejudices and opposition
which were obstacles to my happiness, nor scrupled to give her hand,
where she had given her heart. To be worthy of her, to raise myself to
her height through the exertion of talents and virtue, to repay her
love with devoted, unwearied tenderness, were the only thanks I could
offer for the matchless gift.
CHAPTER VI.
And now let the reader, passing over some short period of time, be
introduced to our happy circle. Adrian, Idris and I, were established
in Windsor Castle; Lord Raymond and my sister, inhabited a house which
the former had built on the borders of the Great Park, near Perdita’s
cottage, as was still named the low-roofed abode, where we two, poor
even in hope, had each received the assurance of our felicity. We had
our separate occupations and our common amusements. Sometimes we passed
whole days under the leafy covert of the forest with our books and
music. This occurred during those rare days in this country, when the
sun mounts his etherial throne in unclouded majesty, and the windless
atmosphere is as a bath of pellucid and grateful water, wrapping the
senses in tranquillity. When the clouds veiled the sky, and the wind
scattered them there and here, rending their woof, and strewing its
fragments through the aerial plains—then we rode out, and sought new
spots of beauty and repose. When the frequent rains shut us within
doors, evening recreation followed morning study, ushered in by music
and song. Idris had a natural musical talent; and her voice, which had
been carefully cultivated, was full and sweet. Raymond and I made a
part of the concert, and Adrian and Perdita were devout listeners. Then
we were as gay as summer insects, playful as children; we ever met one
another with smiles, and read content and joy in each other’s
countenances. Our prime festivals were held in Perdita’s cottage; nor
were we ever weary of talking of the past or dreaming of the future.
Jealousy and disquiet were unknown among us; nor did a fear or hope of
change ever disturb our tranquillity. Others said, We might be happy—we
said—We are.
When any separation took place between us, it generally so happened,
that Idris and Perdita would ramble away together, and we remained to
discuss the affairs of nations, and the philosophy of life. The very
difference of our dispositions gave zest to these conversations. Adrian
had the superiority in learning and eloquence; but Raymond possessed a
quick penetration, and a practical knowledge of life, which usually
displayed itself in opposition to Adrian, and thus kept up the ball of
discussion. At other times we made excursions of many days’ duration,
and crossed the country to visit any spot noted for beauty or
historical association. Sometimes we went up to London, and entered
into the amusements of the busy throng; sometimes our retreat was
invaded by visitors from among them. This change made us only the more
sensible to the delights of the intimate intercourse of our own circle,
the tranquillity of our divine forest, and our happy evenings in the
halls of our beloved Castle.
The disposition of Idris was peculiarly frank, soft, and affectionate.
Her temper was unalterably sweet; and although firm and resolute on any
point that touched her heart, she was yielding to those she loved. The
nature of Perdita was less perfect; but tenderness and happiness
improved her temper, and softened her natural reserve. Her
understanding was clear and comprehensive, her imagination vivid; she
was sincere, generous, and reasonable. Adrian, the matchless brother of
my soul, the sensitive and excellent Adrian, loving all, and beloved by
all, yet seemed destined not to find the half of himself, which was to
complete his happiness. He often left us, and wandered by himself in
the woods, or sailed in his little skiff, his books his only
companions. He was often the gayest of our party, at the same time that
he was the only one visited by fits of despondency; his slender frame
seemed overcharged with the weight of life, and his soul appeared
rather to inhabit his body than unite with it. I was hardly more
devoted to my Idris than to her brother, and she loved him as her
teacher, her friend, the benefactor who had secured to her the
fulfilment of her dearest wishes. Raymond, the ambitious, restless
Raymond, reposed midway on the great high-road of life, and was content
to give up all his schemes of sovereignty and fame, to make one of us,
the flowers of the field. His kingdom was the heart of Perdita, his
subjects her thoughts; by her he was loved, respected as a superior
being, obeyed, waited on. No office, no devotion, no watching was
irksome to her, as it regarded him. She would sit apart from us and
watch him; she would weep for joy to think that he was hers. She
erected a temple for him in the depth of her being, and each faculty
was a priestess vowed to his service. Sometimes she might be wayward
and capricious; but her repentance was bitter, her return entire, and
even this inequality of temper suited him who was not formed by nature
to float idly down the stream of life.
During the first year of their marriage, Perdita presented Raymond with
a lovely girl. It was curious to trace in this miniature model the very
traits of its father. The same half-disdainful lips and smile of
triumph, the same intelligent eyes, the same brow and chestnut hair;
her very hands and taper fingers resembled his. How very dear she was
to Perdita! In progress of time, I also became a father, and our little
darlings, our playthings and delights, called forth a thousand new and
delicious feelings.
Years passed thus,—even years. Each month brought forth its successor,
each year one like to that gone by; truly, our lives were a living
comment on that beautiful sentiment of Plutarch, that “our souls have a
natural inclination to love, being born as much to love, as to feel, to
reason, to understand and remember.” We talked of change and active
pursuits, but still remained at Windsor, incapable of violating the
charm that attached us to our secluded life.
Pareamo aver qui tutto il ben raccolto
Che fra mortali in più parte si rimembra.
Now also that our children gave us occupation, we found excuses for our
idleness, in the idea of bringing them up to a more splendid career. At
length our tranquillity was disturbed, and the course of events, which
for five years had flowed on in hushing tranquillity, was broken by
breakers and obstacles, that woke us from our pleasant dream.
A new Lord Protector of England was to be chosen; and, at Raymond’s
request, we removed to London, to witness, and even take a part in the
election. If Raymond had been united to Idris, this post had been his
stepping-stone to higher dignity; and his desire for power and fame had
been crowned with fullest measure. He had exchanged a sceptre for a
lute, a kingdom for Perdita.
Did he think of this as we journeyed up to town? I watched him, but
could make but little of him. He was particularly gay, playing with his
child, and turning to sport every word that was uttered. Perhaps he did
this because he saw a cloud upon Perdita’s brow. She tried to rouse
herself, but her eyes every now and then filled with tears, and she
looked wistfully on Raymond and her girl, as if fearful that some evil
would betide them. And so she felt. A presentiment of ill hung over
her. She leaned from the window looking on the forest, and the turrets
of the Castle, and as these became hid by intervening objects, she
passionately exclaimed—“Scenes of happiness! scenes sacred to devoted
love, when shall I see you again! and when I see ye, shall I be still
the beloved and joyous Perdita, or shall I, heart-broken and lost,
wander among your groves, the ghost of what I am!”
“Why, silly one,” cried Raymond, “what is your little head pondering
upon, that of a sudden you have become so sublimely dismal? Cheer up,
or I shall make you over to Idris, and call Adrian into the carriage,
who, I see by his gesture, sympathizes with my good spirits.”
Adrian was on horseback; he rode up to the carriage, and his gaiety, in
addition to that of Raymond, dispelled my sister’s melancholy. We
entered London in the evening, and went to our several abodes near Hyde
Park.
The following morning Lord Raymond visited me early. “I come to you,”
he said, “only half assured that you will assist me in my project, but
resolved to go through with it, whether you concur with me or not.
Promise me secrecy however; for if you will not contribute to my
success, at least you must not baffle me.”
“Well, I promise. And now—-”
“And now, my dear fellow, for what are we come to London? To be present
at the election of a Protector, and to give our yea or nay for his
shuffling Grace of——? or for that noisy Ryland? Do you believe, Verney,
that I brought you to town for that? No, we will have a Protector of
our own. We will set up a candidate, and ensure his success. We will
nominate Adrian, and do our best to bestow on him the power to which he
is entitled by his birth, and which he merits through his virtues.
“Do not answer; I know all your objections, and will reply to them in
order. First, Whether he will or will not consent to become a great
man? Leave the task of persuasion on that point to me; I do not ask you
to assist me there. Secondly, Whether he ought to exchange his
employment of plucking blackberries, and nursing wounded partridges in
the forest, for the command of a nation? My dear Lionel, we are married
men, and find employment sufficient in amusing our wives, and dancing
our children. But Adrian is alone, wifeless, childless, unoccupied. I
have long observed him. He pines for want of some interest in life. His
heart, exhausted by his early sufferings, reposes like a new-healed
limb, and shrinks from all excitement. But his understanding, his
charity, his virtues, want a field for exercise and display; and we
will procure it for him. Besides, is it not a shame, that the genius of
Adrian should fade from the earth like a flower in an untrod
mountain-path, fruitless? Do you think Nature composed his surpassing
machine for no purpose? Believe me, he was destined to be the author of
infinite good to his native England. Has she not bestowed on him every
gift in prodigality?—birth, wealth, talent, goodness? Does not every
one love and admire him? and does he not delight singly in such efforts
as manifest his love to all? Come, I see that you are already
persuaded, and will second me when I propose him to-night in
parliament.”
“You have got up all your arguments in excellent order,” I replied;
“and, if Adrian consent, they are unanswerable. One only condition I
would make, —that you do nothing without his concurrence.”
“I believe you are in the right,” said Raymond; “although I had thought
at first to arrange the affair differently. Be it so. I will go
instantly to Adrian; and, if he inclines to consent, you will not
destroy my labour by persuading him to return, and turn squirrel again
in Windsor Forest. Idris, you will not act the traitor towards me?”
“Trust me,” replied she, “I will preserve a strict neutrality.”
“For my part,” said I, “I am too well convinced of the worth of our
friend, and the rich harvest of benefits that all England would reap
from his Protectorship, to deprive my countrymen of such a blessing, if
he consent to bestow it on them.”
In the evening Adrian visited us.—“Do you cabal also against me,” said
he, laughing; “and will you make common cause with Raymond, in dragging
a poor visionary from the clouds to surround him with the fire-works
and blasts of earthly grandeur, instead of heavenly rays and airs? I
thought you knew me better.”
“I do know you better,” I replied “than to think that you would be
happy in such a situation; but the good you would do to others may be
an inducement, since the time is probably arrived when you can put your
theories into practice, and you may bring about such reformation and
change, as will conduce to that perfect system of government which you
delight to portray.”
“You speak of an almost-forgotten dream,” said Adrian, his countenance
slightly clouding as he spoke; “the visions of my boyhood have long
since faded in the light of reality; I know now that I am not a man
fitted to govern nations; sufficient for me, if I keep in wholesome
rule the little kingdom of my own mortality.
“But do not you see, Lionel, the drift of our noble friend; a drift,
perhaps, unknown to himself, but apparent to me. Lord Raymond was never
born to be a drone in the hive, and to find content in our pastoral
life. He thinks, that he ought to be satisfied; he imagines, that his
present situation precludes the possibility of aggrandisement; he does
not therefore, even in his own heart, plan change for himself. But do
you not see, that, under the idea of exalting me, he is chalking out a
new path for himself; a path of action from which he has long wandered?
“Let us assist him. He, the noble, the warlike, the great in every
quality that can adorn the mind and person of man; he is fitted to be
the Protector of England. If _I_—that is, if _we_ propose him, he will
assuredly be elected, and will find, in the functions of that high
office, scope for the towering powers of his mind. Even Perdita will
rejoice. Perdita, in whom ambition was a covered fire until she married
Raymond, which event was for a time the fulfilment of her hopes;
Perdita will rejoice in the glory and advancement of her lord—and,
coyly and prettily, not be discontented with her share. In the mean
time, we, the wise of the land, will return to our Castle, and,
Cincinnatus-like, take to our usual labours, until our friend shall
require our presence and assistance here.”
The more Adrian reasoned upon this scheme, the more feasible it
appeared. His own determination never to enter into public life was
insurmountable, and the delicacy of his health was a sufficient
argument against it. The next step was to induce Raymond to confess his
secret wishes for dignity and fame. He entered while we were speaking.
The way in which Adrian had received his project for setting him up as
a candidate for the Protectorship, and his replies, had already
awakened in his mind, the view of the subject which we were now
discussing. His countenance and manner betrayed irresolution and
anxiety; but the anxiety arose from a fear that we should not
prosecute, or not succeed in our idea; and his irresolution, from a
doubt whether we should risk a defeat. A few words from us decided him,
and hope and joy sparkled in his eyes; the idea of embarking in a
career, so congenial to his early habits and cherished wishes, made him
as before energetic and bold. We discussed his chances, the merits of
the other candidates, and the dispositions of the voters.
After all we miscalculated. Raymond had lost much of his popularity,
and was deserted by his peculiar partizans. Absence from the busy stage
had caused him to be forgotten by the people; his former parliamentary
supporters were principally composed of royalists, who had been willing
to make an idol of him when he appeared as the heir of the Earldom of
Windsor; but who were indifferent to him, when he came forward with no
other attributes and distinctions than they conceived to be common to
many among themselves. Still he had many friends, admirers of his
transcendent talents; his presence in the house, his eloquence, address
and imposing beauty, were calculated to produce an electric effect.
Adrian also, notwithstanding his recluse habits and theories, so
adverse to the spirit of party, had many friends, and they were easily
induced to vote for a candidate of his selection.
The Duke of——, and Mr. Ryland, Lord Raymond’s old antagonist, were the
other candidates. The Duke was supported by all the aristocrats of the
republic, who considered him their proper representative. Ryland was
the popular candidate; when Lord Raymond was first added to the list,
his chance of success appeared small. We retired from the debate which
had followed on his nomination: we, his nominators, mortified; he
dispirited to excess. Perdita reproached us bitterly. Her expectations
had been strongly excited; she had urged nothing against our project,
on the contrary, she was evidently pleased by it; but its evident ill
success changed the current of her ideas. She felt, that, once
awakened, Raymond would never return unrepining to Windsor. His habits
were unhinged; his restless mind roused from its sleep, ambition must
now be his companion through life; and if he did not succeed in his
present attempt, she foresaw that unhappiness and cureless discontent
would follow. Perhaps her own disappointment added a sting to her
thoughts and words; she did not spare us, and our own reflections added
to our disquietude.
It was necessary to follow up our nomination, and to persuade Raymond
to present himself to the electors on the following evening. For a long
time he was obstinate. He would embark in a balloon; he would sail for
a distant quarter of the world, where his name and humiliation were
unknown. But this was useless; his attempt was registered; his purpose
published to the world; his shame could never be erased from the
memories of men. It was as well to fail at last after a struggle, as to
fly now at the beginning of his enterprise.
From the moment that he adopted this idea, he was changed. His
depression and anxiety fled; he became all life and activity. The smile
of triumph shone on his countenance; determined to pursue his object to
the uttermost, his manner and expression seem ominous of the
accomplishment of his wishes. Not so Perdita. She was frightened by his
gaiety, for she dreaded a greater revulsion at the end. If his
appearance even inspired us with hope, it only rendered the state of
her mind more painful. She feared to lose sight of him; yet she dreaded
to remark any change in the temper of his mind. She listened eagerly to
him, yet tantalized herself by giving to his words a meaning foreign to
their true interpretation, and adverse to her hopes. She dared not be
present at the contest; yet she remained at home a prey to double
solicitude. She wept over her little girl; she looked, she spoke, as if
she dreaded the occurrence of some frightful calamity. She was half mad
from the effects of uncontrollable agitation.
Lord Raymond presented himself to the house with fearless confidence
and insinuating address. After the Duke of——and Mr. Ryland had finished
their speeches, he commenced. Assuredly he had not conned his lesson;
and at first he hesitated, pausing in his ideas, and in the choice of
his expressions. By degrees he warmed; his words flowed with ease, his
language was full of vigour, and his voice of persuasion. He reverted
to his past life, his successes in Greece, his favour at home. Why
should he lose this, now that added years, prudence, and the pledge
which his marriage gave to his country, ought to encrease, rather than
diminish his claims to confidence? He spoke of the state of England;
the necessary measures to be taken to ensure its security, and confirm
its prosperity. He drew a glowing picture of its present situation. As
he spoke, every sound was hushed, every thought suspended by intense
attention. His graceful elocution enchained the senses of his hearers.
In some degree also he was fitted to reconcile all parties. His birth
pleased the aristocracy; his being the candidate recommended by Adrian,
a man intimately allied to the popular party, caused a number, who had
no great reliance either on the Duke or Mr. Ryland, to range on his
side.
The contest was keen and doubtful. Neither Adrian nor myself would have
been so anxious, if our own success had depended on our exertions; but
we had egged our friend on to the enterprise, and it became us to
ensure his triumph. Idris, who entertained the highest opinion of his
abilities, was warmly interested in the event: and my poor sister, who
dared not hope, and to whom fear was misery, was plunged into a fever
of disquietude.
Day after day passed while we discussed our projects for the evening,
and each night was occupied by debates which offered no conclusion. At
last the crisis came: the night when parliament, which had so long
delayed its choice, must decide: as the hour of twelve passed, and the
new day began, it was by virtue of the constitution dissolved, its
power extinct.
We assembled at Raymond’s house, we and our partizans. At half past
five o’clock we proceeded to the House. Idris endeavoured to calm
Perdita; but the poor girl’s agitation deprived her of all power of
self-command. She walked up and down the room,—gazed wildly when any
one entered, fancying that they might be the announcers of her doom. I
must do justice to my sweet sister: it was not for herself that she was
thus agonized. She alone knew the weight which Raymond attached to his
success. Even to us he assumed gaiety and hope, and assumed them so
well, that we did not divine the secret workings of his mind. Sometimes
a nervous trembling, a sharp dissonance of voice, and momentary fits of
absence revealed to Perdita the violence he did himself; but we, intent
on our plans, observed only his ready laugh, his joke intruded on all
occasions, the flow of his spirits which seemed incapable of ebb.
Besides, Perdita was with him in his retirement; she saw the moodiness
that succeeded to this forced hilarity; she marked his disturbed sleep,
his painful irritability—once she had seen his tears—hers had scarce
ceased to flow, since she had beheld the big drops which disappointed
pride had caused to gather in his eye, but which pride was unable to
dispel. What wonder then, that her feelings were wrought to this pitch!
I thus accounted to myself for her agitation; but this was not all, and
the sequel revealed another excuse.
One moment we seized before our departure, to take leave of our beloved
girls. I had small hope of success, and entreated Idris to watch over
my sister. As I approached the latter, she seized my hand, and drew me
into another apartment; she threw herself into my arms, and wept and
sobbed bitterly and long. I tried to soothe her; I bade her hope; I
asked what tremendous consequences would ensue even on our failure. “My
brother,” she cried, “protector of my childhood, dear, most dear
Lionel, my fate hangs by a thread. I have you all about me now—you, the
companion of my infancy; Adrian, as dear to me as if bound by the ties
of blood; Idris, the sister of my heart, and her lovely offspring.
This, O this may be the last time that you will surround me thus!”
Abruptly she stopped, and then cried: “What have I said?—foolish false
girl that I am!” She looked wildly on me, and then suddenly calming
herself, apologized for what she called her unmeaning words, saying
that she must indeed be insane, for, while Raymond lived, she must be
happy; and then, though she still wept, she suffered me tranquilly to
depart. Raymond only took her hand when he went, and looked on her
expressively; she answered by a look of intelligence and assent.
Poor girl! what she then suffered! I could never entirely forgive
Raymond for the trials he imposed on her, occasioned as they were by a
selfish feeling on his part. He had schemed, if he failed in his
present attempt, without taking leave of any of us, to embark for
Greece, and never again to revisit England. Perdita acceded to his
wishes; for his contentment was the chief object of her life, the crown
of her enjoyment; but to leave us all, her companions, the beloved
partners of her happiest years, and in the interim to conceal this
frightful determination, was a task that almost conquered her strength
of mind. She had been employed in arranging for their departure; she
had promised Raymond during this decisive evening, to take advantage of
our absence, to go one stage of the journey, and he, after his defeat
was ascertained, would slip away from us, and join her.
Although, when I was informed of this scheme, I was bitterly offended
by the small attention which Raymond paid to my sister’s feelings, I
was led by reflection to consider, that he acted under the force of
such strong excitement, as to take from him the consciousness, and,
consequently, the guilt of a fault. If he had permitted us to witness
his agitation, he would have been more under the guidance of reason;
but his struggles for the shew of composure, acted with such violence
on his nerves, as to destroy his power of self-command. I am convinced
that, at the worst, he would have returned from the seashore to take
leave of us, and to make us the partners of his council. But the task
imposed on Perdita was not the less painful. He had extorted from her a
vow of secrecy; and her part of the drama, since it was to be performed
alone, was the most agonizing that could be devised. But to return to
my narrative.
The debates had hitherto been long and loud; they had often been
protracted merely for the sake of delay. But now each seemed fearful
lest the fatal moment should pass, while the choice was yet undecided.
Unwonted silence reigned in the house, the members spoke in whispers,
and the ordinary business was transacted with celerity and quietness.
During the first stage of the election, the Duke of——had been thrown
out; the question therefore lay between Lord Raymond and Mr. Ryland.
The latter had felt secure of victory, until the appearance of Raymond;
and, since his name had been inserted as a candidate, he had canvassed
with eagerness. He had appeared each evening, impatience and anger
marked in his looks, scowling on us from the opposite side of St.
Stephen’s, as if his mere frown would cast eclipse on our hopes.
Every thing in the English constitution had been regulated for the
better preservation of peace. On the last day, two candidates only were
allowed to remain; and to obviate, if possible, the last struggle
between these, a bribe was offered to him who should voluntarily resign
his pretensions; a place of great emolument and honour was given him,
and his success facilitated at a future election. Strange to say
however, no instance had yet occurred, where either candidate had had
recourse to this expedient; in consequence the law had become obsolete,
nor had been referred to by any of us in our discussions. To our
extreme surprise, when it was moved that we should resolve ourselves
into a committee for the election of the Lord Protector, the member who
had nominated Ryland, rose and informed us that this candidate had
resigned his pretensions. His information was at first received with
silence; a confused murmur succeeded; and, when the chairman declared
Lord Raymond duly chosen, it amounted to a shout of applause and
victory. It seemed as if, far from any dread of defeat even if Mr.
Ryland had not resigned, every voice would have been united in favour
of our candidate. In fact, now that the idea of contest was dismissed,
all hearts returned to their former respect and admiration of our
accomplished friend. Each felt, that England had never seen a Protector
so capable of fulfilling the arduous duties of that high office. One
voice made of many voices, resounded through the chamber; it syllabled
the name of Raymond.
He entered. I was on one of the highest seats, and saw him walk up the
passage to the table of the speaker. The native modesty of his
disposition conquered the joy of his triumph. He looked round timidly;
a mist seemed before his eyes. Adrian, who was beside me, hastened to
him, and jumping down the benches, was at his side in a moment. His
appearance re-animated our friend; and, when he came to speak and act,
his hesitation vanished, and he shone out supreme in majesty and
victory. The former Protector tendered him the oaths, and presented him
with the insignia of office, performing the ceremonies of installation.
The house then dissolved. The chief members of the state crowded round
the new magistrate, and conducted him to the palace of government.
Adrian suddenly vanished; and, by the time that Raymond’s supporters
were reduced to our intimate friends merely, returned leading Idris to
congratulate her friend on his success.
But where was Perdita? In securing solicitously an unobserved retreat
in case of failure, Raymond had forgotten to arrange the mode by which
she was to hear of his success; and she had been too much agitated to
revert to this circumstance. When Idris entered, so far had Raymond
forgotten himself, that he asked for my sister; one word, which told of
her mysterious disappearance, recalled him. Adrian it is true had
already gone to seek the fugitive, imagining that her tameless anxiety
had led her to the purlieus of the House, and that some sinister event
detained her. But Raymond, without explaining himself, suddenly quitted
us, and in another moment we heard him gallop down the street, in spite
of the wind and rain that scattered tempest over the earth. We did not
know how far he had to go, and soon separated, supposing that in a
short time he would return to the palace with Perdita, and that they
would not be sorry to find themselves alone.
Perdita had arrived with her child at Dartford, weeping and
inconsolable. She directed everything to be prepared for the
continuance of their journey, and placing her lovely sleeping charge on
a bed, passed several hours in acute suffering. Sometimes she observed
the war of elements, thinking that they also declared against her, and
listened to the pattering of the rain in gloomy despair. Sometimes she
hung over her child, tracing her resemblance to the father, and fearful
lest in after life she should display the same passions and
uncontrollable impulses, that rendered him unhappy. Again, with a gush
of pride and delight, she marked in the features of her little girl,
the same smile of beauty that often irradiated Raymond’s countenance.
The sight of it soothed her. She thought of the treasure she possessed
in the affections of her lord; of his accomplishments, surpassing those
of his contemporaries, his genius, his devotion to her.—Soon she
thought, that all she possessed in the world, except him, might well be
spared, nay, given with delight, a propitiatory offering, to secure the
supreme good she retained in him. Soon she imagined, that fate demanded
this sacrifice from her, as a mark she was devoted to Raymond, and that
it must be made with cheerfulness. She figured to herself their life in
the Greek isle he had selected for their retreat; her task of soothing
him; her cares for the beauteous Clara, her rides in his company, her
dedication of herself to his consolation. The picture then presented
itself to her in such glowing colours, that she feared the reverse, and
a life of magnificence and power in London; where Raymond would no
longer be hers only, nor she the sole source of happiness to him. So
far as she merely was concerned, she began to hope for defeat; and it
was only on his account that her feelings vacillated, as she heard him
gallop into the court-yard of the inn. That he should come to her
alone, wetted by the storm, careless of every thing except speed, what
else could it mean, than that, vanquished and solitary, they were to
take their way from native England, the scene of shame, and hide
themselves in the myrtle groves of the Grecian isles?
In a moment she was in his arms. The knowledge of his success had
become so much a part of himself, that he forgot that it was necessary
to impart it to his companion. She only felt in his embrace a dear
assurance that while he possessed her, he would not despair. “This is
kind,” she cried; “this is noble, my own beloved! O fear not disgrace
or lowly fortune, while you have your Perdita; fear not sorrow, while
our child lives and smiles. Let us go even where you will; the love
that accompanies us will prevent our regrets.”
Locked in his embrace, she spoke thus, and cast back her head, seeking
an assent to her words in his eyes—they were sparkling with ineffable
delight. “Why, my little Lady Protectress,” said he, playfully, “what
is this you say? And what pretty scheme have you woven of exile and
obscurity, while a brighter web, a gold-enwoven tissue, is that which,
in truth, you ought to contemplate?”
He kissed her brow—but the wayward girl, half sorry at his triumph,
agitated by swift change of thought, hid her face in his bosom and
wept. He comforted her; he instilled into her his own hopes and
desires; and soon her countenance beamed with sympathy. How very happy
were they that night! How full even to bursting was their sense of joy!
CHAPTER VII.
Having seen our friend properly installed in his new office, we turned
our eyes towards Windsor. The nearness of this place to London was
such, as to take away the idea of painful separation, when we quitted
Raymond and Perdita. We took leave of them in the Protectoral Palace.
It was pretty enough to see my sister enter as it were into the spirit
of the drama, and endeavour to fill her station with becoming dignity.
Her internal pride and humility of manner were now more than ever at
war. Her timidity was not artificial, but arose from that fear of not
being properly appreciated, that slight estimation of the neglect of
the world, which also characterized Raymond. But then Perdita thought
more constantly of others than he; and part of her bashfulness arose
from a wish to take from those around her a sense of inferiority; a
feeling which never crossed her mind. From the circumstances of her
birth and education, Idris would have been better fitted for the
formulae of ceremony; but the very ease which accompanied such actions
with her, arising from habit, rendered them tedious; while, with every
drawback, Perdita evidently enjoyed her situation. She was too full of
new ideas to feel much pain when we departed; she took an affectionate
leave of us, and promised to visit us soon; but she did not regret the
circumstances that caused our separation. The spirits of Raymond were
unbounded; he did not know what to do with his new got power; his head
was full of plans; he had as yet decided on none— but he promised
himself, his friends, and the world, that the aera of his Protectorship
should be signalized by some act of surpassing glory. Thus, we talked
of them, and moralized, as with diminished numbers we returned to
Windsor Castle. We felt extreme delight at our escape from political
turmoil, and sought our solitude with redoubled zest. We did not want
for occupation; but my eager disposition was now turned to the field of
intellectual exertion only; and hard study I found to be an excellent
medicine to allay a fever of spirit with which in indolence, I should
doubtless have been assailed. Perdita had permitted us to take Clara
back with us to Windsor; and she and my two lovely infants were
perpetual sources of interest and amusement.
The only circumstance that disturbed our peace, was the health of
Adrian. It evidently declined, without any symptom which could lead us
to suspect his disease, unless indeed his brightened eyes, animated
look, and flustering cheeks, made us dread consumption; but he was
without pain or fear. He betook himself to books with ardour, and
reposed from study in the society he best loved, that of his sister and
myself. Sometimes he went up to London to visit Raymond, and watch the
progress of events. Clara often accompanied him in these excursions;
partly that she might see her parents, partly because Adrian delighted
in the prattle, and intelligent looks of this lovely child.
Meanwhile all went on well in London. The new elections were finished;
parliament met, and Raymond was occupied in a thousand beneficial
schemes. Canals, aqueducts, bridges, stately buildings, and various
edifices for public utility, were entered upon; he was continually
surrounded by projectors and projects, which were to render England one
scene of fertility and magnificence; the state of poverty was to be
abolished; men were to be transported from place to place almost with
the same facility as the Princes Houssain, Ali, and Ahmed, in the
Arabian Nights. The physical state of man would soon not yield to the
beatitude of angels; disease was to be banished; labour lightened of
its heaviest burden. Nor did this seem extravagant. The arts of life,
and the discoveries of science had augmented in a ratio which left all
calculation behind; food sprung up, so to say, spontaneously—machines
existed to supply with facility every want of the population. An evil
direction still survived; and men were not happy, not because they
could not, but because they would not rouse themselves to vanquish
self-raised obstacles. Raymond was to inspire them with his beneficial
will, and the mechanism of society, once systematised according to
faultless rules, would never again swerve into disorder. For these
hopes he abandoned his long-cherished ambition of being enregistered in
the annals of nations as a successful warrior; laying aside his sword,
peace and its enduring glories became his aim—the title he coveted was
that of the benefactor of his country.
Among other works of art in which he was engaged, he had projected the
erection of a national gallery for statues and pictures. He possessed
many himself, which he designed to present to the Republic; and, as the
edifice was to be the great ornament of his Protectorship, he was very
fastidious in his choice of the plan on which it would be built.
Hundreds were brought to him and rejected. He sent even to Italy and
Greece for drawings; but, as the design was to be characterized by
originality as well as by perfect beauty, his endeavours were for a
time without avail. At length a drawing came, with an address where
communications might be sent, and no artist’s name affixed. The design
was new and elegant, but faulty; so faulty, that although drawn with
the hand and eye of taste, it was evidently the work of one who was not
an architect. Raymond contemplated it with delight; the more he gazed,
the more pleased he was; and yet the errors multiplied under
inspection. He wrote to the address given, desiring to see the
draughtsman, that such alterations might be made, as should be
suggested in a consultation between him and the original conceiver.
A Greek came. A middle-aged man, with some intelligence of manner, but
with so common-place a physiognomy, that Raymond could scarcely believe
that he was the designer. He acknowledged that he was not an architect;
but the idea of the building had struck him, though he had sent it
without the smallest hope of its being accepted. He was a man of few
words. Raymond questioned him; but his reserved answers soon made him
turn from the man to the drawing. He pointed out the errors, and the
alterations that he wished to be made; he offered the Greek a pencil
that he might correct the sketch on the spot; this was refused by his
visitor, who said that he perfectly understood, and would work at it at
home. At length Raymond suffered him to depart.
The next day he returned. The design had been re-drawn; but many
defects still remained, and several of the instructions given had been
misunderstood. “Come,” said Raymond, “I yielded to you yesterday, now
comply with my request—take the pencil.”
The Greek took it, but he handled it in no artist-like way; at length
he said: “I must confess to you, my Lord, that I did not make this
drawing. It is impossible for you to see the real designer; your
instructions must pass through me. Condescend therefore to have
patience with my ignorance, and to explain your wishes to me; in time I
am certain that you will be satisfied.”
Raymond questioned vainly; the mysterious Greek would say no more.
Would an architect be permitted to see the artist? This also was
refused. Raymond repeated his instructions, and the visitor retired.
Our friend resolved however not to be foiled in his wish. He suspected,
that unaccustomed poverty was the cause of the mystery, and that the
artist was unwilling to be seen in the garb and abode of want. Raymond
was only the more excited by this consideration to discover him;
impelled by the interest he took in obscure talent, he therefore
ordered a person skilled in such matters, to follow the Greek the next
time he came, and observe the house in which he should enter. His
emissary obeyed, and brought the desired intelligence. He had traced
the man to one of the most penurious streets in the metropolis. Raymond
did not wonder, that, thus situated, the artist had shrunk from notice,
but he did not for this alter his resolve.
On the same evening, he went alone to the house named to him. Poverty,
dirt, and squalid misery characterized its appearance. Alas! thought
Raymond, I have much to do before England becomes a Paradise. He
knocked; the door was opened by a string from above—the broken,
wretched staircase was immediately before him, but no person appeared;
he knocked again, vainly—and then, impatient of further delay, he
ascended the dark, creaking stairs. His main wish, more particularly
now that he witnessed the abject dwelling of the artist, was to relieve
one, possessed of talent, but depressed by want. He pictured to himself
a youth, whose eyes sparkled with genius, whose person was attenuated
by famine. He half feared to displease him; but he trusted that his
generous kindness would be administered so delicately, as not to excite
repulse. What human heart is shut to kindness? and though poverty, in
its excess, might render the sufferer unapt to submit to the supposed
degradation of a benefit, the zeal of the benefactor must at last relax
him into thankfulness. These thoughts encouraged Raymond, as he stood
at the door of the highest room of the house. After trying vainly to
enter the other apartments, he perceived just within the threshold of
this one, a pair of small Turkish slippers; the door was ajar, but all
was silent within. It was probable that the inmate was absent, but
secure that he had found the right person, our adventurous Protector
was tempted to enter, to leave a purse on the table, and silently
depart. In pursuance of this idea, he pushed open the door gently—but
the room was inhabited.
Raymond had never visited the dwellings of want, and the scene that now
presented itself struck him to the heart. The floor was sunk in many
places; the walls ragged and bare—the ceiling weather-stained—a
tattered bed stood in the corner; there were but two chairs in the
room, and a rough broken table, on which was a light in a tin
candlestick;—yet in the midst of such drear and heart sickening
poverty, there was an air of order and cleanliness that surprised him.
The thought was fleeting; for his attention was instantly drawn towards
the inhabitant of this wretched abode. It was a female. She sat at the
table; one small hand shaded her eyes from the candle; the other held a
pencil; her looks were fixed on a drawing before her, which Raymond
recognized as the design presented to him. Her whole appearance
awakened his deepest interest. Her dark hair was braided and twined in
thick knots like the head-dress of a Grecian statue; her garb was mean,
but her attitude might have been selected as a model of grace. Raymond
had a confused remembrance that he had seen such a form before; he
walked across the room; she did not raise her eyes, merely asking in
Romaic, who is there? “A friend,” replied Raymond in the same dialect.
She looked up wondering, and he saw that it was Evadne Zaimi. Evadne,
once the idol of Adrian’s affections; and who, for the sake of her
present visitor, had disdained the noble youth, and then, neglected by
him she loved, with crushed hopes and a stinging sense of misery, had
returned to her native Greece. What revolution of fortune could have
brought her to England, and housed her thus?
Raymond recognized her; and his manner changed from polite beneficence
to the warmest protestations of kindness and sympathy. The sight of
her, in her present situation, passed like an arrow into his soul. He
sat by her, he took her hand, and said a thousand things which breathed
the deepest spirit of compassion and affection. Evadne did not answer;
her large dark eyes were cast down, at length a tear glimmered on the
lashes. “Thus,” she cried, “kindness can do, what no want, no misery
ever effected; I weep.” She shed indeed many tears; her head sunk
unconsciously on the shoulder of Raymond; he held her hand: he kissed
her sunken tear-stained cheek. He told her, that her sufferings were
now over: no one possessed the art of consoling like Raymond; he did
not reason or declaim, but his look shone with sympathy; he brought
pleasant images before the sufferer; his caresses excited no distrust,
for they arose purely from the feeling which leads a mother to kiss her
wounded child; a desire to demonstrate in every possible way the truth
of his feelings, and the keenness of his wish to pour balm into the
lacerated mind of the unfortunate. As Evadne regained her composure,
his manner became even gay; he sported with the idea of her poverty.
Something told him that it was not its real evils that lay heavily at
her heart, but the debasement and disgrace attendant on it; as he
talked, he divested it of these; sometimes speaking of her fortitude
with energetic praise; then, alluding to her past state, he called her
his Princess in disguise. He made her warm offers of service; she was
too much occupied by more engrossing thoughts, either to accept or
reject them; at length he left her, making a promise to repeat his
visit the next day. He returned home, full of mingled feelings, of pain
excited by Evadne’s wretchedness, and pleasure at the prospect of
relieving it. Some motive for which he did not account, even to
himself, prevented him from relating his adventure to Perdita.
The next day he threw such disguise over his person as a cloak
afforded, and revisited Evadne. As he went, he bought a basket of
costly fruits, such as were natives of her own country, and throwing
over these various beautiful flowers, bore it himself to the miserable
garret of his friend. “Behold,” cried he, as he entered, “what bird’s
food I have brought for my sparrow on the house-top.”
Evadne now related the tale of her misfortunes. Her father, though of
high rank, had in the end dissipated his fortune, and even destroyed
his reputation and influence through a course of dissolute indulgence.
His health was impaired beyond hope of cure; and it became his earnest
wish, before he died, to preserve his daughter from the poverty which
would be the portion of her orphan state. He therefore accepted for
her, and persuaded her to accede to, a proposal of marriage, from a
wealthy Greek merchant settled at Constantinople. She quitted her
native Greece; her father died; by degrees she was cut off from all the
companions and ties of her youth.
The war, which about a year before the present time had broken out
between Greece and Turkey, brought about many reverses of fortune. Her
husband became bankrupt, and then in a tumult and threatened massacre
on the part of the Turks, they were obliged to fly at midnight, and
reached in an open boat an English vessel under sail, which brought
them immediately to this island. The few jewels they had saved,
supported them awhile. The whole strength of Evadne’s mind was exerted
to support the failing spirits of her husband. Loss of property,
hopelessness as to his future prospects, the inoccupation to which
poverty condemned him, combined to reduce him to a state bordering on
insanity. Five months after their arrival in England, he committed
suicide.
“You will ask me,” continued Evadne, “what I have done since; why I
have not applied for succour to the rich Greeks resident here; why I
have not returned to my native country? My answer to these questions
must needs appear to you unsatisfactory, yet they have sufficed to lead
me on, day after day, enduring every wretchedness, rather than by such
means to seek relief. Shall the daughter of the noble, though prodigal
Zaimi, appear a beggar before her compeers or inferiors—superiors she
had none. Shall I bow my head before them, and with servile gesture
sell my nobility for life? Had I a child, or any tie to bind me to
existence, I might descend to this—but, as it is—the world has been to
me a harsh step-mother; fain would I leave the abode she seems to
grudge, and in the grave forget my pride, my struggles, my despair. The
time will soon come; grief and famine have already sapped the
foundations of my being; a very short time, and I shall have passed
away; unstained by the crime of self-destruction, unstung by the memory
of degradation, my spirit will throw aside the miserable coil, and find
such recompense as fortitude and resignation may deserve. This may seem
madness to you, yet you also have pride and resolution; do not then
wonder that my pride is tameless, my resolution unalterable.”
Having thus finished her tale, and given such an account as she deemed
fit, of the motives of her abstaining from all endeavour to obtain aid
from her countrymen, Evadne paused; yet she seemed to have more to say,
to which she was unable to give words. In the mean time Raymond was
eloquent. His desire of restoring his lovely friend to her rank in
society, and to her lost prosperity, animated him, and he poured forth
with energy, all his wishes and intentions on that subject. But he was
checked; Evadne exacted a promise, that he should conceal from all her
friends her existence in England. “The relatives of the Earl of
Windsor,” said she haughtily, “doubtless think that I injured him;
perhaps the Earl himself would be the first to acquit me, but probably
I do not deserve acquittal. I acted then, as I ever must, from impulse.
This abode of penury may at least prove the disinterestedness of my
conduct. No matter: I do not wish to plead my cause before any of them,
not even before your Lordship, had you not first discovered me. The
tenor of my actions will prove that I had rather die, than be a mark
for scorn—behold the proud Evadne in her tatters! look on the
beggar-princess! There is aspic venom in the thought—promise me that my
secret shall not be violated by you.”
Raymond promised; but then a new discussion ensued. Evadne required
another engagement on his part, that he would not without her
concurrence enter into any project for her benefit, nor himself offer
relief. “Do not degrade me in my own eyes,” she said; “poverty has long
been my nurse; hard-visaged she is, but honest. If dishonour, or what I
conceive to be dishonour, come near me, I am lost.” Raymond adduced
many arguments and fervent persuasions to overcome her feeling, but she
remained unconvinced; and, agitated by the discussion, she wildly and
passionately made a solemn vow, to fly and hide herself where he never
could discover her, where famine would soon bring death to conclude her
woes, if he persisted in his to her disgracing offers. She could
support herself, she said. And then she shewed him how, by executing
various designs and paintings, she earned a pittance for her support.
Raymond yielded for the present. He felt assured, after he had for
awhile humoured her self-will, that in the end friendship and reason
would gain the day.
But the feelings that actuated Evadne were rooted in the depths of her
being, and were such in their growth as he had no means of
understanding. Evadne loved Raymond. He was the hero of her
imagination, the image carved by love in the unchanged texture of her
heart. Seven years ago, in her youthful prime, she had become attached
to him; he had served her country against the Turks; he had in her own
land acquired that military glory peculiarly dear to the Greeks, since
they were still obliged inch by inch to fight for their security. Yet
when he returned thence, and first appeared in public life in England,
her love did not purchase his, which then vacillated between Perdita
and a crown. While he was yet undecided, she had quitted England; the
news of his marriage reached her, and her hopes, poorly nurtured
blossoms, withered and fell. The glory of life was gone for her; the
roseate halo of love, which had imbued every object with its own
colour, faded;—she was content to take life as it was, and to make the
best of leaden-coloured reality. She married; and, carrying her
restless energy of character with her into new scenes, she turned her
thoughts to ambition, and aimed at the title and power of Princess of
Wallachia; while her patriotic feelings were soothed by the idea of the
good she might do her country, when her husband should be chief of this
principality. She lived to find ambition, as unreal a delusion as love.
Her intrigues with Russia for the furtherance of her object, excited
the jealousy of the Porte, and the animosity of the Greek government.
She was considered a traitor by both, the ruin of her husband followed;
they avoided death by a timely flight, and she fell from the height of
her desires to penury in England. Much of this tale she concealed from
Raymond; nor did she confess, that repulse and denial, as to a criminal
convicted of the worst of crimes, that of bringing the scythe of
foreign despotism to cut away the new springing liberties of her
country, would have followed her application to any among the Greeks.
She knew that she was the cause of her husband’s utter ruin; and she
strung herself to bear the consequences. The reproaches which agony
extorted; or worse, cureless, uncomplaining depression, when his mind
was sunk in a torpor, not the less painful because it was silent and
moveless. She reproached herself with the crime of his death; guilt and
its punishments appeared to surround her; in vain she endeavoured to
allay remorse by the memory of her real integrity; the rest of the
world, and she among them, judged of her actions, by their
consequences. She prayed for her husband’s soul; she conjured the
Supreme to place on her head the crime of his self-destruction—she
vowed to live to expiate his fault.
In the midst of such wretchedness as must soon have destroyed her, one
thought only was matter of consolation. She lived in the same country,
breathed the same air as Raymond. His name as Protector was the burthen
of every tongue; his achievements, projects, and magnificence, the
argument of every story. Nothing is so precious to a woman’s heart as
the glory and excellence of him she loves; thus in every horror Evadne
revelled in his fame and prosperity. While her husband lived, this
feeling was regarded by her as a crime, repressed, repented of. When he
died, the tide of love resumed its ancient flow, it deluged her soul
with its tumultuous waves, and she gave herself up a prey to its
uncontrollable power.
But never, O, never, should he see her in her degraded state. Never
should he behold her fallen, as she deemed, from her pride of beauty,
the poverty-stricken inhabitant of a garret, with a name which had
become a reproach, and a weight of guilt on her soul. But though
impenetrably veiled from him, his public office permitted her to become
acquainted with all his actions, his daily course of life, even his
conversation. She allowed herself one luxury, she saw the newspapers
every day, and feasted on the praise and actions of the Protector. Not
that this indulgence was devoid of accompanying grief. Perdita’s name
was for ever joined with his; their conjugal felicity was celebrated
even by the authentic testimony of facts. They were continually
together, nor could the unfortunate Evadne read the monosyllable that
designated his name, without, at the same time, being presented with
the image of her who was the faithful companion of all his labours and
pleasures. _They_, _their Excellencies_, met her eyes in each line,
mingling an evil potion that poisoned her very blood.
It was in the newspaper that she saw the advertisement for the design
for a national gallery. Combining with taste her remembrance of the
edifices which she had seen in the east, and by an effort of genius
enduing them with unity of design, she executed the plan which had been
sent to the Protector. She triumphed in the idea of bestowing, unknown
and forgotten as she was, a benefit upon him she loved; and with
enthusiastic pride looked forward to the accomplishment of a work of
hers, which, immortalized in stone, would go down to posterity stamped
with the name of Raymond. She awaited with eagerness the return of her
messenger from the palace; she listened insatiate to his account of
each word, each look of the Protector; she felt bliss in this
communication with her beloved, although he knew not to whom he
addressed his instructions. The drawing itself became ineffably dear to
her. He had seen it, and praised it; it was again retouched by her,
each stroke of her pencil was as a chord of thrilling music, and bore
to her the idea of a temple raised to celebrate the deepest and most
unutterable emotions of her soul. These contemplations engaged her,
when the voice of Raymond first struck her ear, a voice, once heard,
never to be forgotten; she mastered her gush of feelings, and welcomed
him with quiet gentleness.
Pride and tenderness now struggled, and at length made a compromise
together. She would see Raymond, since destiny had led him to her, and
her constancy and devotion must merit his friendship. But her rights
with regard to him, and her cherished independence, should not be
injured by the idea of interest, or the intervention of the complicated
feelings attendant on pecuniary obligation, and the relative situations
of the benefactor, and benefited. Her mind was of uncommon strength;
she could subdue her sensible wants to her mental wishes, and suffer
cold, hunger and misery, rather than concede to fortune a contested
point. Alas! that in human nature such a pitch of mental discipline,
and disdainful negligence of nature itself, should not have been allied
to the extreme of moral excellence! But the resolution that permitted
her to resist the pains of privation, sprung from the too great energy
of her passions; and the concentrated self-will of which this was a
sign, was destined to destroy even the very idol, to preserve whose
respect she submitted to this detail of wretchedness.
Their intercourse continued. By degrees Evadne related to her friend
the whole of her story, the stain her name had received in Greece, the
weight of sin which had accrued to her from the death of her husband.
When Raymond offered to clear her reputation, and demonstrate to the
world her real patriotism, she declared that it was only through her
present sufferings that she hoped for any relief to the stings of
conscience; that, in her state of mind, diseased as he might think it,
the necessity of occupation was salutary medicine; she ended by
extorting a promise that for the space of one month he would refrain
from the discussion of her interests, engaging after that time to yield
in part to his wishes. She could not disguise to herself that any
change would separate her from him; now she saw him each day. His
connection with Adrian and Perdita was never mentioned; he was to her a
meteor, a companionless star, which at its appointed hour rose in her
hemisphere, whose appearance brought felicity, and which, although it
set, was never eclipsed. He came each day to her abode of penury, and
his presence transformed it to a temple redolent with sweets, radiant
with heaven’s own light; he partook of her delirium. “They built a wall
between them and the world”—Without, a thousand harpies raved, remorse
and misery, expecting the destined moment for their invasion. Within,
was the peace as of innocence, reckless blindless, deluding joy, hope,
whose still anchor rested on placid but unconstant water.
Thus, while Raymond had been wrapt in visions of power and fame, while
he looked forward to entire dominion over the elements and the mind of
man, the territory of his own heart escaped his notice; and from that
unthought of source arose the mighty torrent that overwhelmed his will,
and carried to the oblivious sea, fame, hope, and happiness.
CHAPTER VIII.
In the mean time what did Perdita?
During the first months of his Protectorate, Raymond and she had been
inseparable; each project was discussed with her, each plan approved by
her. I never beheld any one so perfectly happy as my sweet sister. Her
expressive eyes were two stars whose beams were love; hope and
light-heartedness sat on her cloudless brow. She fed even to tears of
joy on the praise and glory of her Lord; her whole existence was one
sacrifice to him, and if in the humility of her heart she felt
self-complacency, it arose from the reflection that she had won the
distinguished hero of the age, and had for years preserved him, even
after time had taken from love its usual nourishment. Her own feeling
was as entire as at its birth. Five years had failed to destroy the
dazzling unreality of passion. Most men ruthlessly destroy the sacred
veil, with which the female heart is wont to adorn the idol of its
affections. Not so Raymond; he was an enchanter, whose reign was for
ever undiminished; a king whose power never was suspended: follow him
through the details of common life, still the same charm of grace and
majesty adorned him; nor could he be despoiled of the innate
deification with which nature had invested him. Perdita grew in beauty
and excellence under his eye; I no longer recognised my reserved
abstracted sister in the fascinating and open-hearted wife of Raymond.
The genius that enlightened her countenance, was now united to an
expression of benevolence, which gave divine perfection to her beauty.
Happiness is in its highest degree the sister of goodness. Suffering
and amiability may exist together, and writers have loved to depict
their conjunction; there is a human and touching harmony in the
picture. But perfect happiness is an attribute of angels; and those who
possess it, appear angelic. Fear has been said to be the parent of
religion: even of that religion is it the generator, which leads its
votaries to sacrifice human victims at its altars; but the religion
which springs from happiness is a lovelier growth; the religion which
makes the heart breathe forth fervent thanksgiving, and causes us to
pour out the overflowings of the soul before the author of our being;
that which is the parent of the imagination and the nurse of poetry;
that which bestows benevolent intelligence on the visible mechanism of
the world, and makes earth a temple with heaven for its cope. Such
happiness, goodness, and religion inhabited the mind of Perdita.
During the five years we had spent together, a knot of happy human
beings at Windsor Castle, her blissful lot had been the frequent theme
of my sister’s conversation. From early habit, and natural affection,
she selected me in preference to Adrian or Idris, to be the partner in
her overflowings of delight; perhaps, though apparently much unlike,
some secret point of resemblance, the offspring of consanguinity,
induced this preference. Often at sunset, I have walked with her, in
the sober, enshadowed forest paths, and listened with joyful sympathy.
Security gave dignity to her passion; the certainty of a full return,
left her with no wish unfulfilled. The birth of her daughter, embryo
copy of her Raymond, filled up the measure of her content, and produced
a sacred and indissoluble tie between them. Sometimes she felt proud
that he had preferred her to the hopes of a crown. Sometimes she
remembered that she had suffered keen anguish, when he hesitated in his
choice. But this memory of past discontent only served to enhance her
present joy. What had been hardly won, was now, entirely possessed,
doubly dear. She would look at him at a distance with the same rapture,
(O, far more exuberant rapture!) that one might feel, who after the
perils of a tempest, should find himself in the desired port; she would
hasten towards him, to feel more certain in his arms, the reality of
her bliss. This warmth of affection, added to the depth of her
understanding, and the brilliancy of her imagination, made her beyond
words dear to Raymond.
If a feeling of dissatisfaction ever crossed her, it arose from the
idea that he was not perfectly happy. Desire of renown, and
presumptuous ambition, had characterized his youth. The one he had
acquired in Greece; the other he had sacrificed to love. His intellect
found sufficient field for exercise in his domestic circle, whose
members, all adorned by refinement and literature, were many of them,
like himself, distinguished by genius. Yet active life was the genuine
soil for his virtues; and he sometimes suffered tedium from the
monotonous succession of events in our retirement. Pride made him
recoil from complaint; and gratitude and affection to Perdita,
generally acted as an opiate to all desire, save that of meriting her
love. We all observed the visitation of these feelings, and none
regretted them so much as Perdita. Her life consecrated to him, was a
slight sacrifice to reward his choice, but was not that sufficient—Did
he need any gratification that she was unable to bestow? This was the
only cloud in the azure of her happiness.
His passage to power had been full of pain to both. He however attained
his wish; he filled the situation for which nature seemed to have
moulded him. His activity was fed in wholesome measure, without either
exhaustion or satiety; his taste and genius found worthy expression in
each of the modes human beings have invented to encage and manifest the
spirit of beauty; the goodness of his heart made him never weary of
conducing to the well-being of his fellow-creatures; his magnificent
spirit, and aspirations for the respect and love of mankind, now
received fruition; true, his exaltation was temporary; perhaps it were
better that it should be so. Habit would not dull his sense of the
enjoyment of power; nor struggles, disappointment and defeat await the
end of that which would expire at its maturity. He determined to
extract and condense all of glory, power, and achievement, which might
have resulted from a long reign, into the three years of his
Protectorate.
Raymond was eminently social. All that he now enjoyed would have been
devoid of pleasure to him, had it been unparticipated. But in Perdita
he possessed all that his heart could desire. Her love gave birth to
sympathy; her intelligence made her understand him at a word; her
powers of intellect enabled her to assist and guide him. He felt her
worth. During the early years of their union, the inequality of her
temper, and yet unsubdued self-will which tarnished her character, had
been a slight drawback to the fulness of his sentiment. Now that
unchanged serenity, and gentle compliance were added to her other
qualifications, his respect equalled his love. Years added to the
strictness of their union. They did not now guess at, and totter on the
pathway, divining the mode to please, hoping, yet fearing the
continuance of bliss. Five years gave a sober certainty to their
emotions, though it did not rob them of their etherial nature. It had
given them a child; but it had not detracted from the personal
attractions of my sister. Timidity, which in her had almost amounted to
awkwardness, was exchanged for a graceful decision of manner;
frankness, instead of reserve, characterized her physiognomy; and her
voice was attuned to thrilling softness. She was now three and twenty,
in the pride of womanhood, fulfilling the precious duties of wife and
mother, possessed of all her heart had ever coveted. Raymond was ten
years older; to his previous beauty, noble mien, and commanding aspect,
he now added gentlest benevolence, winning tenderness, graceful and
unwearied attention to the wishes of another.
The first secret that had existed between them was the visits of
Raymond to Evadne. He had been struck by the fortitude and beauty of
the ill-fated Greek; and, when her constant tenderness towards him
unfolded itself, he asked with astonishment, by what act of his he had
merited this passionate and unrequited love. She was for a while the
sole object of his reveries; and Perdita became aware that his thoughts
and time were bestowed on a subject unparticipated by her. My sister
was by nature destitute of the common feelings of anxious, petulant
jealousy. The treasure which she possessed in the affections of
Raymond, was more necessary to her being, than the life-blood that
animated her veins—more truly than Othello she might say,
To be once in doubt,
Is—once to be resolved.
On the present occasion she did not suspect any alienation of
affection; but she conjectured that some circumstance connected with
his high place, had occasioned this mystery. She was startled and
pained. She began to count the long days, and months, and years which
must elapse, before he would be restored to a private station, and
unreservedly to her. She was not content that, even for a time, he
should practice concealment with her. She often repined; but her trust
in the singleness of his affection was undisturbed; and, when they were
together, unchecked by fear, she opened her heart to the fullest
delight.
Time went on. Raymond, stopping mid-way in his wild career, paused
suddenly to think of consequences. Two results presented themselves in
the view he took of the future. That his intercourse with Evadne should
continue a secret to, or that finally it should be discovered by
Perdita. The destitute condition, and highly wrought feelings of his
friend prevented him from adverting to the possibility of exiling
himself from her. In the first event he had bidden an eternal farewell
to open-hearted converse, and entire sympathy with the companion of his
life. The veil must be thicker than that invented by Turkish jealousy;
the wall higher than the unscaleable tower of Vathek, which should
conceal from her the workings of his heart, and hide from her view the
secret of his actions. This idea was intolerably painful to him.
Frankness and social feelings were the essence of Raymond’s nature;
without them his qualities became common-place; without these to spread
glory over his intercourse with Perdita, his vaunted exchange of a
throne for her love, was as weak and empty as the rainbow hues which
vanish when the sun is down. But there was no remedy. Genius, devotion,
and courage; the adornments of his mind, and the energies of his soul,
all exerted to their uttermost stretch, could not roll back one hair’s
breadth the wheel of time’s chariot; that which had been was written
with the adamantine pen of reality, on the everlasting volume of the
past; nor could agony and tears suffice to wash out one iota from the
act fulfilled.
But this was the best side of the question. What, if circumstance
should lead Perdita to suspect, and suspecting to be resolved? The
fibres of his frame became relaxed, and cold dew stood on his forehead,
at this idea. Many men may scoff at his dread; but he read the future;
and the peace of Perdita was too dear to him, her speechless agony too
certain, and too fearful, not to unman him. His course was speedily
decided upon. If the worst befell; if she learnt the truth, he would
neither stand her reproaches, or the anguish of her altered looks. He
would forsake her, England, his friends, the scenes of his youth, the
hopes of coming time, he would seek another country, and in other
scenes begin life again. Having resolved on this, he became calmer. He
endeavoured to guide with prudence the steeds of destiny through the
devious road which he had chosen, and bent all his efforts the better
to conceal what he could not alter.
The perfect confidence that subsisted between Perdita and him, rendered
every communication common between them. They opened each other’s
letters, even as, until now, the inmost fold of the heart of each was
disclosed to the other. A letter came unawares, Perdita read it. Had it
contained confirmation, she must have been annihilated. As it was,
trembling, cold, and pale, she sought Raymond. He was alone, examining
some petitions lately presented. She entered silently, sat on a sofa
opposite to him, and gazed on him with a look of such despair, that
wildest shrieks and dire moans would have been tame exhibitions of
misery, compared to the living incarnation of the thing itself
exhibited by her.
At first he did not take his eyes from the papers; when he raised them,
he was struck by the wretchedness manifest on her altered cheek; for a
moment he forgot his own acts and fears, and asked with
consternation—“Dearest girl, what is the matter; what has happened?”
“Nothing,” she replied at first; “and yet not so,” she continued,
hurrying on in her speech; “you have secrets, Raymond; where have you
been lately, whom have you seen, what do you conceal from me?—why am I
banished from your confidence? Yet this is not it—I do not intend to
entrap you with questions—one will suffice—am I completely a wretch?”
With trembling hand she gave him the paper, and sat white and
motionless looking at him while he read it. He recognised the
hand-writing of Evadne, and the colour mounted in his cheeks. With
lightning-speed he conceived the contents of the letter; all was now
cast on one die; falsehood and artifice were trifles in comparison with
the impending ruin. He would either entirely dispel Perdita’s
suspicions, or quit her for ever. “My dear girl,” he said, “I have been
to blame; but you must pardon me. I was in the wrong to commence a
system of concealment; but I did it for the sake of sparing you pain;
and each day has rendered it more difficult for me to alter my plan.
Besides, I was instigated by delicacy towards the unhappy writer of
these few lines.”
Perdita gasped: “Well,” she cried, “well, go on!”
“That is all—this paper tells all. I am placed in the most difficult
circumstances. I have done my best, though perhaps I have done wrong.
My love for you is inviolate.”
Perdita shook her head doubtingly: “It cannot be,” she cried, “I know
that it is not. You would deceive me, but I will not be deceived. I
have lost you, myself, my life!”
“Do you not believe me?” said Raymond haughtily.
“To believe you,” she exclaimed, “I would give up all, and expire with
joy, so that in death I could feel that you were true—but that cannot
be!”
“Perdita,” continued Raymond, “you do not see the precipice on which
you stand. You may believe that I did not enter on my present line of
conduct without reluctance and pain. I knew that it was possible that
your suspicions might be excited; but I trusted that my simple word
would cause them to disappear. I built my hope on your confidence. Do
you think that I will be questioned, and my replies disdainfully set
aside? Do you think that I will be suspected, perhaps watched,
cross-questioned, and disbelieved? I am not yet fallen so low; my
honour is not yet so tarnished. You have loved me; I adored you. But
all human sentiments come to an end. Let our affection expire—but let
it not be exchanged for distrust and recrimination. Heretofore we have
been friends—lovers—let us not become enemies, mutual spies. I cannot
live the object of suspicion—you cannot believe me—let us part!”
“Exactly so,” cried Perdita, “I knew that it would come to this! Are we
not already parted? Does not a stream, boundless as ocean, deep as
vacuum, yawn between us?”
Raymond rose, his voice was broken, his features convulsed, his manner
calm as the earthquake-cradling atmosphere, he replied: “I am rejoiced
that you take my decision so philosophically. Doubtless you will play
the part of the injured wife to admiration. Sometimes you may be stung
with the feeling that you have wronged me, but the condolence of your
relatives, the pity of the world, the complacency which the
consciousness of your own immaculate innocence will bestow, will be
excellent balm;—me you will never see more!”
Raymond moved towards the door. He forgot that each word he spoke was
false. He personated his assumption of innocence even to
self-deception. Have not actors wept, as they pourtrayed imagined
passion? A more intense feeling of the reality of fiction possessed
Raymond. He spoke with pride; he felt injured. Perdita looked up; she
saw his angry glance; his hand was on the lock of the door. She started
up, she threw herself on his neck, she gasped and sobbed; he took her
hand, and leading her to the sofa, sat down near her. Her head fell on
his shoulder, she trembled, alternate changes of fire and ice ran
through her limbs: observing her emotion he spoke with softened
accents:
“The blow is given. I will not part from you in anger;—I owe you too
much. I owe you six years of unalloyed happiness. But they are passed.
I will not live the mark of suspicion, the object of jealousy. I love
you too well. In an eternal separation only can either of us hope for
dignity and propriety of action. We shall not then be degraded from our
true characters. Faith and devotion have hitherto been the essence of
our intercourse;—these lost, let us not cling to the seedless husk of
life, the unkernelled shell. You have your child, your brother, Idris,
Adrian”—
“And you,” cried Perdita, “the writer of that letter.”
Uncontrollable indignation flashed from the eyes of Raymond. He knew
that this accusation at least was false. “Entertain this belief,” he
cried, “hug it to your heart—make it a pillow to your head, an opiate
for your eyes —I am content. But, by the God that made me, hell is not
more false than the word you have spoken!”
Perdita was struck by the impassioned seriousness of his asseverations.
She replied with earnestness, “I do not refuse to believe you, Raymond;
on the contrary I promise to put implicit faith in your simple word.
Only assure me that your love and faith towards me have never been
violated; and suspicion, and doubt, and jealousy will at once be
dispersed. We shall continue as we have ever done, one heart, one hope,
one life.”
“I have already assured you of my fidelity,” said Raymond with
disdainful coldness, “triple assertions will avail nothing where one is
despised. I will say no more; for I can add nothing to what I have
already said, to what you before contemptuously set aside. This
contention is unworthy of both of us; and I confess that I am weary of
replying to charges at once unfounded and unkind.”
Perdita tried to read his countenance, which he angrily averted. There
was so much of truth and nature in his resentment, that her doubts were
dispelled. Her countenance, which for years had not expressed a feeling
unallied to affection, became again radiant and satisfied. She found it
however no easy task to soften and reconcile Raymond. At first he
refused to stay to hear her. But she would not be put off; secure of
his unaltered love, she was willing to undertake any labour, use any
entreaty, to dispel his anger. She obtained an hearing, he sat in
haughty silence, but he listened. She first assured him of her
boundless confidence; of this he must be conscious, since but for that
she would not seek to detain him. She enumerated their years of
happiness; she brought before him past scenes of intimacy and
happiness; she pictured their future life, she mentioned their
child—tears unbidden now filled her eyes. She tried to disperse them,
but they refused to be checked—her utterance was choaked. She had not
wept before. Raymond could not resist these signs of distress: he felt
perhaps somewhat ashamed of the part he acted of the injured man, he
who was in truth the injurer. And then he devoutly loved Perdita; the
bend of her head, her glossy ringlets, the turn of her form were to him
subjects of deep tenderness and admiration; as she spoke, her melodious
tones entered his soul; he soon softened towards her, comforting and
caressing her, and endeavouring to cheat himself into the belief that
he had never wronged her.
Raymond staggered forth from this scene, as a man might do, who had
been just put to the torture, and looked forward to when it would be
again inflicted. He had sinned against his own honour, by affirming,
swearing to, a direct falsehood; true this he had palmed on a woman,
and it might therefore be deemed less base—by others—not by him;—for
whom had he deceived?—his own trusting, devoted, affectionate Perdita,
whose generous belief galled him doubly, when he remembered the parade
of innocence with which it had been exacted. The mind of Raymond was
not so rough cast, nor had been so rudely handled, in the circumstance
of life, as to make him proof to these considerations—on the contrary,
he was all nerve; his spirit was as a pure fire, which fades and
shrinks from every contagion of foul atmosphere: but now the contagion
had become incorporated with its essence, and the change was the more
painful. Truth and falsehood, love and hate lost their eternal
boundaries, heaven rushed in to mingle with hell; while his sensitive
mind, turned to a field for such battle, was stung to madness. He
heartily despised himself, he was angry with Perdita, and the idea of
Evadne was attended by all that was hideous and cruel. His passions,
always his masters, acquired fresh strength, from the long sleep in
which love had cradled them, the clinging weight of destiny bent him
down; he was goaded, tortured, fiercely impatient of that worst of
miseries, the sense of remorse. This troubled state yielded by degrees,
to sullen animosity, and depression of spirits. His dependants, even
his equals, if in his present post he had any, were startled to find
anger, derision, and bitterness in one, before distinguished for
suavity and benevolence of manner. He transacted public business with
distaste, and hastened from it to the solitude which was at once his
bane and relief. He mounted a fiery horse, that which had borne him
forward to victory in Greece; he fatigued himself with deadening
exercise, losing the pangs of a troubled mind in animal sensation.
He slowly recovered himself; yet, at last, as one might from the
effects of poison, he lifted his head from above the vapours of fever
and passion into the still atmosphere of calm reflection. He meditated
on what was best to be done. He was first struck by the space of time
that had elapsed, since madness, rather than any reasonable impulse,
had regulated his actions. A month had gone by, and during that time he
had not seen Evadne. Her power, which was linked to few of the enduring
emotions of his heart, had greatly decayed. He was no longer her
slave—no longer her lover: he would never see her more, and by the
completeness of his return, deserve the confidence of Perdita.
Yet, as he thus determined, fancy conjured up the miserable abode of
the Greek girl. An abode, which from noble and lofty principle, she had
refused to exchange for one of greater luxury. He thought of the
splendour of her situation and appearance when he first knew her; he
thought of her life at Constantinople, attended by every circumstance
of oriental magnificence; of her present penury, her daily task of
industry, her lorn state, her faded, famine-struck cheek. Compassion
swelled his breast; he would see her once again; he would devise some
plan for restoring her to society, and the enjoyment of her rank; their
separation would then follow, as a matter of course.
Again he thought, how during this long month, he had avoided Perdita,
flying from her as from the stings of his own conscience. But he was
awake now; all this should be remedied; and future devotion erase the
memory of this only blot on the serenity of their life. He became
cheerful, as he thought of this, and soberly and resolutely marked out
the line of conduct he would adopt. He remembered that he had promised
Perdita to be present this very evening (the 19th of October,
anniversary of his election as Protector) at a festival given in his
honour. Good augury should this festival be of the happiness of future
years. First, he would look in on Evadne; he would not stay; but he
owed her some account, some compensation for his long and unannounced
absence; and then to Perdita, to the forgotten world, to the duties of
society, the splendour of rank, the enjoyment of power.
After the scene sketched in the preceding pages, Perdita had
contemplated an entire change in the manners and conduct of Raymond.
She expected freedom of communication, and a return to those habits of
affectionate intercourse which had formed the delight of her life. But
Raymond did not join her in any of her avocations. He transacted the
business of the day apart from her; he went out, she knew not whither.
The pain inflicted by this disappointment was tormenting and keen. She
looked on it as a deceitful dream, and tried to throw off the
consciousness of it; but like the shirt of Nessus, it clung to her very
flesh, and ate with sharp agony into her vital principle. She possessed
that (though such an assertion may appear a paradox) which belongs to
few, a capacity of happiness. Her delicate organization and creative
imagination rendered her peculiarly susceptible of pleasurable emotion.
The overflowing warmth of her heart, by making love a plant of deep
root and stately growth, had attuned her whole soul to the reception of
happiness, when she found in Raymond all that could adorn love and
satisfy her imagination. But if the sentiment on which the fabric of
her existence was founded, became common place through participation,
the endless succession of attentions and graceful action snapt by
transfer, his universe of love wrested from her, happiness must depart,
and then be exchanged for its opposite. The same peculiarities of
character rendered her sorrows agonies; her fancy magnified them, her
sensibility made her for ever open to their renewed impression; love
envenomed the heart-piercing sting. There was neither submission,
patience, nor self-abandonment in her grief; she fought with it,
struggled beneath it, and rendered every pang more sharp by resistance.
Again and again the idea recurred, that he loved another. She did him
justice; she believed that he felt a tender affection for her; but give
a paltry prize to him who in some life-pending lottery has calculated
on the possession of tens of thousands, and it will disappoint him more
than a blank. The affection and amity of a Raymond might be
inestimable; but, beyond that affection, embosomed deeper than
friendship, was the indivisible treasure of love. Take the sum in its
completeness, and no arithmetic can calculate its price; take from it
the smallest portion, give it but the name of parts, separate it into
degrees and sections, and like the magician’s coin, the valueless gold
of the mine, is turned to vilest substance. There is a meaning in the
eye of love; a cadence in its voice, an irradiation in its smile, the
talisman of whose enchantments one only can possess; its spirit is
elemental, its essence single, its divinity an unit. The very heart and
soul of Raymond and Perdita had mingled, even as two mountain brooks
that join in their descent, and murmuring and sparkling flow over
shining pebbles, beside starry flowers; but let one desert its primal
course, or be dammed up by choaking obstruction, and the other shrinks
in its altered banks. Perdita was sensible of the failing of the tide
that fed her life. Unable to support the slow withering of her hopes,
she suddenly formed a plan, resolving to terminate at once the period
of misery, and to bring to an happy conclusion the late disastrous
events.
The anniversary was at hand of the exaltation of Raymond to the office
of Protector; and it was customary to celebrate this day by a splendid
festival. A variety of feelings urged Perdita to shed double
magnificence over the scene; yet, as she arrayed herself for the
evening gala, she wondered herself at the pains she took, to render
sumptuous the celebration of an event which appeared to her the
beginning of her sufferings. Woe befall the day, she thought, woe,
tears, and mourning betide the hour, that gave Raymond another hope
than love, another wish than my devotion; and thrice joyful the moment
when he shall be restored to me! God knows, I put my trust in his vows,
and believe his asserted faith—but for that, I would not seek what I am
now resolved to attain. Shall two years more be thus passed, each day
adding to our alienation, each act being another stone piled on the
barrier which separates us? No, my Raymond, my only beloved, sole
possession of Perdita! This night, this splendid assembly, these
sumptuous apartments, and this adornment of your tearful girl, are all
united to celebrate your abdication. Once for me, you relinquished the
prospect of a crown. That was in days of early love, when I could only
hold out the hope, not the assurance of happiness. Now you have the
experience of all that I can give, the heart’s devotion, taintless
love, and unhesitating subjection to you. You must choose between these
and your protectorate. This, proud noble, is your last night! Perdita
has bestowed on it all of magnificent and dazzling that your heart best
loves—but, from these gorgeous rooms, from this princely attendance,
from power and elevation, you must return with to-morrow’s sun to our
rural abode; for I would not buy an immortality of joy, by the
endurance of one more week sister to the last.
Brooding over this plan, resolved when the hour should come, to
propose, and insist upon its accomplishment, secure of his consent, the
heart of Perdita was lightened, or rather exalted. Her cheek was
flushed by the expectation of struggle; her eyes sparkled with the hope
of triumph. Having cast her fate upon a die, and feeling secure of
winning, she, whom I have named as bearing the stamp of queen of
nations on her noble brow, now rose superior to humanity, and seemed in
calm power, to arrest with her finger, the wheel of destiny. She had
never before looked so supremely lovely.
We, the Arcadian shepherds of the tale, had intended to be present at
this festivity, but Perdita wrote to entreat us not to come, or to
absent ourselves from Windsor; for she (though she did not reveal her
scheme to us) resolved the next morning to return with Raymond to our
dear circle, there to renew a course of life in which she had found
entire felicity. Late in the evening she entered the apartments
appropriated to the festival. Raymond had quitted the palace the night
before; he had promised to grace the assembly, but he had not yet
returned. Still she felt sure that he would come at last; and the wider
the breach might appear at this crisis, the more secure she was of
closing it for ever.
It was as I said, the nineteenth of October; the autumn was far
advanced and dreary. The wind howled; the half bare trees were
despoiled of the remainder of their summer ornament; the state of the
air which induced the decay of vegetation, was hostile to cheerfulness
or hope. Raymond had been exalted by the determination he had made; but
with the declining day his spirits declined. First he was to visit
Evadne, and then to hasten to the palace of the Protectorate. As he
walked through the wretched streets in the neighbourhood of the
luckless Greek’s abode, his heart smote him for the whole course of his
conduct towards her. First, his having entered into any engagement that
should permit her to remain in such a state of degradation; and then,
after a short wild dream, having left her to drear solitude, anxious
conjecture, and bitter, still—disappointed expectation. What had she
done the while, how supported his absence and neglect? Light grew dim
in these close streets, and when the well known door was opened, the
staircase was shrouded in perfect night. He groped his way up, he
entered the garret, he found Evadne stretched speechless, almost
lifeless on her wretched bed. He called for the people of the house,
but could learn nothing from them, except that they knew nothing. Her
story was plain to him, plain and distinct as the remorse and horror
that darted their fangs into him. When she found herself forsaken by
him, she lost the heart to pursue her usual avocations; pride forbade
every application to him; famine was welcomed as the kind porter to the
gates of death, within whose opening folds she should now, without sin,
quickly repose. No creature came near her, as her strength failed.
If she died, where could there be found on record a murderer, whose
cruel act might compare with his? What fiend more wanton in his
mischief, what damned soul more worthy of perdition! But he was not
reserved for this agony of self-reproach. He sent for medical
assistance; the hours passed, spun by suspense into ages; the darkness
of the long autumnal night yielded to day, before her life was secure.
He had her then removed to a more commodious dwelling, and hovered
about her, again and again to assure himself that she was safe.
In the midst of his greatest suspense and fear as to the event, he
remembered the festival given in his honour, by Perdita; in his honour
then, when misery and death were affixing indelible disgrace to his
name, honour to him whose crimes deserved a scaffold; this was the
worst mockery. Still Perdita would expect him; he wrote a few
incoherent words on a scrap of paper, testifying that he was well, and
bade the woman of the house take it to the palace, and deliver it into
the hands of the wife of the Lord Protector. The woman, who did not
know him, contemptuously asked, how he thought she should gain
admittance, particularly on a festal night, to that lady’s presence?
Raymond gave her his ring to ensure the respect of the menials. Thus,
while Perdita was entertaining her guests, and anxiously awaiting the
arrival of her lord, his ring was brought her; and she was told that a
poor woman had a note to deliver to her from its wearer.
The vanity of the old gossip was raised by her commission, which, after
all, she did not understand, since she had no suspicion, even now that
Evadne’s visitor was Lord Raymond. Perdita dreaded a fall from his
horse, or some similar accident—till the woman’s answers woke other
fears. From a feeling of cunning blindly exercised, the officious, if
not malignant messenger, did not speak of Evadne’s illness; but she
garrulously gave an account of Raymond’s frequent visits, adding to her
narration such circumstances, as, while they convinced Perdita of its
truth, exaggerated the unkindness and perfidy of Raymond. Worst of all,
his absence now from the festival, his message wholly unaccounted for,
except by the disgraceful hints of the woman, appeared the deadliest
insult. Again she looked at the ring, it was a small ruby, almost
heart-shaped, which she had herself given him. She looked at the
hand-writing, which she could not mistake, and repeated to herself the
words—“Do not, I charge you, I entreat you, permit your guests to
wonder at my absence:” the while the old crone going on with her talk,
filled her ear with a strange medley of truth and falsehood. At length
Perdita dismissed her.
The poor girl returned to the assembly, where her presence had not been
missed. She glided into a recess somewhat obscured, and leaning against
an ornamental column there placed, tried to recover herself. Her
faculties were palsied. She gazed on some flowers that stood near in a
carved vase: that morning she had arranged them, they were rare and
lovely plants; even now all aghast as she was, she observed their
brilliant colours and starry shapes.—“Divine infoliations of the spirit
of beauty,” she exclaimed, “Ye droop not, neither do ye mourn; the
despair that clasps my heart, has not spread contagion over you!—Why am
I not a partner of your insensibility, a sharer in your calm!”
She paused. “To my task,” she continued mentally, “my guests must not
perceive the reality, either as it regards him or me. I obey; they
shall not, though I die the moment they are gone. They shall behold the
antipodes of what is real—for I will appear to live—while I am—dead.”
It required all her self-command, to suppress the gush of tears
self-pity caused at this idea. After many struggles, she succeeded, and
turned to join the company.
All her efforts were now directed to the dissembling her internal
conflict. She had to play the part of a courteous hostess; to attend to
all; to shine the focus of enjoyment and grace. She had to do this,
while in deep woe she sighed for loneliness, and would gladly have
exchanged her crowded rooms for dark forest depths, or a drear,
night-enshadowed heath. But she became gay. She could not keep in the
medium, nor be, as was usual with her, placidly content. Every one
remarked her exhilaration of spirits; as all actions appear graceful in
the eye of rank, her guests surrounded her applaudingly, although there
was a sharpness in her laugh, and an abruptness in her sallies, which
might have betrayed her secret to an attentive observer. She went on,
feeling that, if she had paused for a moment, the checked waters of
misery would have deluged her soul, that her wrecked hopes would raise
their wailing voices, and that those who now echoed her mirth, and
provoked her repartees, would have shrunk in fear from her convulsive
despair. Her only consolation during the violence which she did
herself, was to watch the motions of an illuminated clock, and
internally count the moments which must elapse before she could be
alone.
At length the rooms began to thin. Mocking her own desires, she rallied
her guests on their early departure. One by one they left her—at length
she pressed the hand of her last visitor. “How cold and damp your hand
is,” said her friend; “you are over fatigued, pray hasten to rest.”
Perdita smiled faintly—her guest left her; the carriage rolling down
the street assured the final departure. Then, as if pursued by an
enemy, as if wings had been at her feet, she flew to her own apartment,
she dismissed her attendants, she locked the doors, she threw herself
wildly on the floor, she bit her lips even to blood to suppress her
shrieks, and lay long a prey to the vulture of despair, striving not to
think, while multitudinous ideas made a home of her heart; and ideas,
horrid as furies, cruel as vipers, and poured in with such swift
succession, that they seemed to jostle and wound each other, while they
worked her up to madness.
At length she rose, more composed, not less miserable. She stood before
a large mirror—she gazed on her reflected image; her light and graceful
dress, the jewels that studded her hair, and encircled her beauteous
arms and neck, her small feet shod in satin, her profuse and glossy
tresses, all were to her clouded brow and woe-begone countenance like a
gorgeous frame to a dark tempest-pourtraying picture. “Vase am I,” she
thought, “vase brimful of despair’s direst essence. Farewell, Perdita!
farewell, poor girl! never again will you see yourself thus; luxury and
wealth are no longer yours; in the excess of your poverty you may envy
the homeless beggar; most truly am I without a home! I live on a barren
desart, which, wide and interminable, brings forth neither fruit or
flower; in the midst is a solitary rock, to which thou, Perdita, art
chained, and thou seest the dreary level stretch far away.”
She threw open her window, which looked on the palace-garden. Light and
darkness were struggling together, and the orient was streaked by
roseate and golden rays. One star only trembled in the depth of the
kindling atmosphere. The morning air blowing freshly over the dewy
plants, rushed into the heated room. “All things go on,” thought
Perdita, “all things proceed, decay, and perish! When noontide has
passed, and the weary day has driven her team to their western stalls,
the fires of heaven rise from the East, moving in their accustomed
path, they ascend and descend the skiey hill. When their course is
fulfilled, the dial begins to cast westward an uncertain shadow; the
eye-lids of day are opened, and birds and flowers, the startled
vegetation, and fresh breeze awaken; the sun at length appears, and in
majestic procession climbs the capitol of heaven. All proceeds, changes
and dies, except the sense of misery in my bursting heart.
“Ay, all proceeds and changes: what wonder then, that love has journied
on to its setting, and that the lord of my life has changed? We call
the supernal lights fixed, yet they wander about yonder plain, and if I
look again where I looked an hour ago, the face of the eternal heavens
is altered. The silly moon and inconstant planets vary nightly their
erratic dance; the sun itself, sovereign of the sky, ever and anon
deserts his throne, and leaves his dominion to night and winter. Nature
grows old, and shakes in her decaying limbs,—creation has become
bankrupt! What wonder then, that eclipse and death have led to
destruction the light of thy life, O Perdita!”
CHAPTER IX.
Thus sad and disarranged were the thoughts of my poor sister, when she
became assured of the infidelity of Raymond. All her virtues and all
her defects tended to make the blow incurable. Her affection for me,
her brother, for Adrian and Idris, was subject as it were to the
reigning passion of her heart; even her maternal tenderness borrowed
half its force from the delight she had in tracing Raymond’s features
and expression in the infant’s countenance. She had been reserved and
even stern in childhood; but love had softened the asperities of her
character, and her union with Raymond had caused her talents and
affections to unfold themselves; the one betrayed, and the other lost,
she in some degree returned to her ancient disposition. The
concentrated pride of her nature, forgotten during her blissful dream,
awoke, and with its adder’s sting pierced her heart; her humility of
spirit augmented the power of the venom; she had been exalted in her
own estimation, while distinguished by his love: of what worth was she,
now that he thrust her from this preferment? She had been proud of
having won and preserved him—but another had won him from her, and her
exultation was as cold as a water quenched ember.
We, in our retirement, remained long in ignorance of her misfortune.
Soon after the festival she had sent for her child, and then she seemed
to have forgotten us. Adrian observed a change during a visit that he
afterward paid them; but he could not tell its extent, or divine the
cause. They still appeared in public together, and lived under the same
roof. Raymond was as usual courteous, though there was, on occasions,
an unbidden haughtiness, or painful abruptness in his manners, which
startled his gentle friend; his brow was not clouded but disdain sat on
his lips, and his voice was harsh. Perdita was all kindness and
attention to her lord; but she was silent, and beyond words sad. She
had grown thin and pale; and her eyes often filled with tears.
Sometimes she looked at Raymond, as if to say—That it should be so! At
others her countenance expressed—I will still do all I can to make you
happy. But Adrian read with uncertain aim the charactery of her face,
and might mistake.—Clara was always with her, and she seemed most at
ease, when, in an obscure corner, she could sit holding her child’s
hand, silent and lonely. Still Adrian was unable to guess the truth; he
entreated them to visit us at Windsor, and they promised to come during
the following month.
It was May before they arrived: the season had decked the forest trees
with leaves, and its paths with a thousand flowers. We had notice of
their intention the day before; and, early in the morning, Perdita
arrived with her daughter. Raymond would follow soon, she said; he had
been detained by business. According to Adrian’s account, I had
expected to find her sad; but, on the contrary, she appeared in the
highest spirits: true, she had grown thin, her eyes were somewhat
hollow, and her cheeks sunk, though tinged by a bright glow. She was
delighted to see us; caressed our children, praised their growth and
improvement; Clara also was pleased to meet again her young friend
Alfred; all kinds of childish games were entered into, in which Perdita
joined. She communicated her gaiety to us, and as we amused ourselves
on the Castle Terrace, it appeared that a happier, less care-worn party
could not have been assembled. “This is better, Mamma,” said Clara,
“than being in that dismal London, where you often cry, and never laugh
as you do now.”—“Silence, little foolish thing,” replied her mother,
“and remember any one that mentions London is sent to Coventry for an
hour.”
Soon after, Raymond arrived. He did not join as usual in the playful
spirit of the rest; but, entering into conversation with Adrian and
myself, by degrees we seceded from our companions, and Idris and
Perdita only remained with the children. Raymond talked of his new
buildings; of his plan for an establishment for the better education of
the poor; as usual Adrian and he entered into argument, and the time
slipped away unperceived.
We assembled again towards evening, and Perdita insisted on our having
recourse to music. She wanted, she said, to give us a specimen of her
new accomplishment; for since she had been in London, she had applied
herself to music, and sang, without much power, but with a great deal
of sweetness. We were not permitted by her to select any but
light-hearted melodies; and all the Operas of Mozart were called into
service, that we might choose the most exhilarating of his airs. Among
the other transcendant attributes of Mozart’s music, it possesses more
than any other that of appearing to come from the heart; you enter into
the passions expressed by him, and are transported with grief, joy,
anger, or confusion, as he, our soul’s master, chooses to inspire. For
some time, the spirit of hilarity was kept up; but, at length, Perdita
receded from the piano, for Raymond had joined in the trio of “_Taci
ingiusto core_,” in Don Giovanni, whose arch entreaty was softened by
him into tenderness, and thrilled her heart with memories of the
changed past; it was the same voice, the same tone, the self-same
sounds and words, which often before she had received, as the homage of
love to her—no longer was it that; and this concord of sound with its
dissonance of expression penetrated her with regret and despair. Soon
after Idris, who was at the harp, turned to that passionate and
sorrowful air in Figaro, “_Porgi, amor, qualche ristoro_,” in which the
deserted Countess laments the change of the faithless Almaviva. The
soul of tender sorrow is breathed forth in this strain; and the sweet
voice of Idris, sustained by the mournful chords of her instrument,
added to the expression of the words. During the pathetic appeal with
which it concludes, a stifled sob attracted our attention to Perdita,
the cessation of the music recalled her to herself, she hastened out of
the hall—I followed her. At first, she seemed to wish to shun me; and
then, yielding to my earnest questioning, she threw herself on my neck,
and wept aloud:—“Once more,” she cried, “once more on your friendly
breast, my beloved brother, can the lost Perdita pour forth her
sorrows. I had imposed a law of silence on myself; and for months I
have kept it. I do wrong in weeping now, and greater wrong in giving
words to my grief. I will not speak! Be it enough for you to know that
I am miserable—be it enough for you to know, that the painted veil of
life is rent, that I sit for ever shrouded in darkness and gloom, that
grief is my sister, everlasting lamentation my mate!”
I endeavoured to console her; I did not question her! but I caressed
her, assured her of my deepest affection and my intense interest in the
changes of her fortune:—“Dear words,” she cried, “expressions of love
come upon my ear, like the remembered sounds of forgotten music, that
had been dear to me. They are vain, I know; how very vain in their
attempt to soothe or comfort me. Dearest Lionel, you cannot guess what
I have suffered during these long months. I have read of mourners in
ancient days, who clothed themselves in sackcloth, scattered dust upon
their heads, ate their bread mingled with ashes, and took up their
abode on the bleak mountain tops, reproaching heaven and earth aloud
with their misfortunes. Why this is the very luxury of sorrow! thus one
might go on from day to day contriving new extravagances, revelling in
the paraphernalia of woe, wedded to all the appurtenances of despair.
Alas! I must for ever conceal the wretchedness that consumes me. I must
weave a veil of dazzling falsehood to hide my grief from vulgar eyes,
smoothe my brow, and paint my lips in deceitful smiles—even in solitude
I dare not think how lost I am, lest I become insane and rave.”
The tears and agitation of my poor sister had rendered her unfit to
return to the circle we had left—so I persuaded her to let me drive her
through the park; and, during the ride, I induced her to confide the
tale of her unhappiness to me, fancying that talking of it would
lighten the burthen, and certain that, if there were a remedy, it
should be found and secured to her.
Several weeks had elapsed since the festival of the anniversary, and
she had been unable to calm her mind, or to subdue her thoughts to any
regular train. Sometimes she reproached herself for taking too bitterly
to heart, that which many would esteem an imaginary evil; but this was
no subject for reason; and, ignorant as she was of the motives and true
conduct of Raymond, things assumed for her even a worse appearance,
than the reality warranted. He was seldom at the palace; never, but
when he was assured that his public duties would prevent his remaining
alone with Perdita. They seldom addressed each other, shunning
explanation, each fearing any communication the other might make.
Suddenly, however, the manners of Raymond changed; he appeared to
desire to find opportunities of bringing about a return to kindness and
intimacy with my sister. The tide of love towards her appeared to flow
again; he could never forget, how once he had been devoted to her,
making her the shrine and storehouse wherein to place every thought and
every sentiment. Shame seemed to hold him back; yet he evidently wished
to establish a renewal of confidence and affection. From the moment
Perdita had sufficiently recovered herself to form any plan of action,
she had laid one down, which now she prepared to follow. She received
these tokens of returning love with gentleness; she did not shun his
company; but she endeavoured to place a barrier in the way of familiar
intercourse or painful discussion, which mingled pride and shame
prevented Raymond from surmounting. He began at last to shew signs of
angry impatience, and Perdita became aware that the system she had
adopted could not continue; she must explain herself to him; she could
not summon courage to speak—she wrote thus:—
“Read this letter with patience, I entreat you. It will contain no
reproaches. Reproach is indeed an idle word: for what should I reproach
you?
“Allow me in some degree to explain my feeling; without that, we shall
both grope in the dark, mistaking one another; erring from the path
which may conduct, one of us at least, to a more eligible mode of life
than that led by either during the last few weeks.
“I loved you—I love you—neither anger nor pride dictates these lines;
but a feeling beyond, deeper, and more unalterable than either. My
affections are wounded; it is impossible to heal them:—cease then the
vain endeavour, if indeed that way your endeavours tend. Forgiveness!
Return! Idle words are these! I forgive the pain I endure; but the
trodden path cannot be retraced.
“Common affection might have been satisfied with common usages. I
believed that you read my heart, and knew its devotion, its unalienable
fidelity towards you. I never loved any but you. You came the embodied
image of my fondest dreams. The praise of men, power and high
aspirations attended your career. Love for you invested the world for
me in enchanted light; it was no longer the earth I trod—the earth,
common mother, yielding only trite and stale repetition of objects and
circumstances old and worn out. I lived in a temple glorified by
intensest sense of devotion and rapture; I walked, a consecrated being,
contemplating only your power, your excellence;
For O, you stood beside me, like my youth,
Transformed for me the real to a dream,
Cloathing the palpable and familiar
With golden exhalations of the dawn.
‘The bloom has vanished from my life’—there is no morning to this all
investing night; no rising to the set-sun of love. In those days the
rest of the world was nothing to me: all other men—I never considered
nor felt what they were; nor did I look on you as one of them.
Separated from them; exalted in my heart; sole possessor of my
affections; single object of my hopes, the best half of myself.
“Ah, Raymond, were we not happy? Did the sun shine on any, who could
enjoy its light with purer and more intense bliss? It was not—it is not
a common infidelity at which I repine. It is the disunion of an whole
which may not have parts; it is the carelessness with which you have
shaken off the mantle of election with which to me you were invested,
and have become one among the many. Dream not to alter this. Is not
love a divinity, because it is immortal? Did not I appear sanctified,
even to myself, because this love had for its temple my heart? I have
gazed on you as you slept, melted even to tears, as the idea filled my
mind, that all I possessed lay cradled in those idolized, but mortal
lineaments before me. Yet, even then, I have checked thick-coming fears
with one thought; I would not fear death, for the emotions that linked
us must be immortal.
“And now I do not fear death. I should be well pleased to close my
eyes, never more to open them again. And yet I fear it; even as I fear
all things; for in any state of being linked by the chain of memory
with this, happiness would not return—even in Paradise, I must feel
that your love was less enduring than the mortal beatings of my fragile
heart, every pulse of which knells audibly,
The funeral note
Of love, deep buried, without resurrection.
No—no—me miserable; for love extinct there is no resurrection!
“Yet I love you. Yet, and for ever, would I contribute all I possess to
your welfare. On account of a tattling world; for the sake of my—of our
child, I would remain by you, Raymond, share your fortunes, partake
your counsel. Shall it be thus? We are no longer lovers; nor can I call
myself a friend to any; since, lost as I am, I have no thought to spare
from my own wretched, engrossing self. But it will please me to see you
each day! to listen to the public voice praising you; to keep up your
paternal love for our girl; to hear your voice; to know that I am near
you, though you are no longer mine.
“If you wish to break the chains that bind us, say the word, and it
shall be done—I will take all the blame on myself, of harshness or
unkindness, in the world’s eye.
“Yet, as I have said, I should be best pleased, at least for the
present, to live under the same roof with you. When the fever of my
young life is spent; when placid age shall tame the vulture that
devours me, friendship may come, love and hope being dead. May this be
true? Can my soul, inextricably linked to this perishable frame, become
lethargic and cold, even as this sensitive mechanism shall lose its
youthful elasticity? Then, with lack-lustre eyes, grey hairs, and
wrinkled brow, though now the words sound hollow and meaningless, then,
tottering on the grave’s extreme edge, I may be—your affectionate and
true friend,
“PERDITA.”
Raymond’s answer was brief. What indeed could he reply to her
complaints, to her griefs which she jealously paled round, keeping out
all thought of remedy. “Notwithstanding your bitter letter,” he wrote,
“for bitter I must call it, you are the chief person in my estimation,
and it is your happiness that I would principally consult. Do that
which seems best to you: and if you can receive gratification from one
mode of life in preference to another, do not let me be any obstacle. I
foresee that the plan which you mark out in your letter will not endure
long; but you are mistress of yourself, and it is my sincere wish to
contribute as far as you will permit me to your happiness.”
“Raymond has prophesied well,” said Perdita, “alas, that it should be
so! our present mode of life cannot continue long, yet I will not be
the first to propose alteration. He beholds in me one whom he has
injured even unto death; and I derive no hope from his kindness; no
change can possibly be brought about even by his best intentions. As
well might Cleopatra have worn as an ornament the vinegar which
contained her dissolved pearl, as I be content with the love that
Raymond can now offer me.”
I own that I did not see her misfortune with the same eyes as Perdita.
At all events methought that the wound could be healed; and, if they
remained together, it would be so. I endeavoured therefore to sooth and
soften her mind; and it was not until after many endeavours that I gave
up the task as impracticable. Perdita listened to me impatiently, and
answered with some asperity:—“Do you think that any of your arguments
are new to me? or that my own burning wishes and intense anguish have
not suggested them all a thousand times, with far more eagerness and
subtlety than you can put into them? Lionel, you cannot understand what
woman’s love is. In days of happiness I have often repeated to myself,
with a grateful heart and exulting spirit, all that Raymond sacrificed
for me. I was a poor, uneducated, unbefriended, mountain girl, raised
from nothingness by him. All that I possessed of the luxuries of life
came from him. He gave me an illustrious name and noble station; the
world’s respect reflected from his own glory: all this joined to his
own undying love, inspired me with sensations towards him, akin to
those with which we regard the Giver of life. I gave him love only. I
devoted myself to him: imperfect creature that I was, I took myself to
task, that I might become worthy of him. I watched over my hasty
temper, subdued my burning impatience of character, schooled my
self-engrossing thoughts, educating myself to the best perfection I
might attain, that the fruit of my exertions might be his happiness. I
took no merit to myself for this. He deserved it all—all labour, all
devotion, all sacrifice; I would have toiled up a scaleless Alp, to
pluck a flower that would please him. I was ready to quit you all, my
beloved and gifted companions, and to live only with him, for him. I
could not do otherwise, even if I had wished; for if we are said to
have two souls, he was my better soul, to which the other was a
perpetual slave. One only return did he owe me, even fidelity. I earned
that; I deserved it. Because I was mountain bred, unallied to the noble
and wealthy, shall he think to repay me by an empty name and station?
Let him take them back; without his love they are nothing to me. Their
only merit in my eyes was that they were his.”
Thus passionately Perdita ran on. When I adverted to the question of
their entire separation, she replied: “Be it so! One day the period
will arrive; I know it, and feel it. But in this I am a coward. This
imperfect companionship, and our masquerade of union, are strangely
dear to me. It is painful, I allow, destructive, impracticable. It
keeps up a perpetual fever in my veins; it frets my immedicable wound;
it is instinct with poison. Yet I must cling to it; perhaps it will
kill me soon, and thus perform a thankful office.”
In the mean time, Raymond had remained with Adrian and Idris. He was
naturally frank; the continued absence of Perdita and myself became
remarkable; and Raymond soon found relief from the constraint of
months, by an unreserved confidence with his two friends. He related to
them the situation in which he had found Evadne. At first, from
delicacy to Adrian he concealed her name; but it was divulged in the
course of his narrative, and her former lover heard with the most acute
agitation the history of her sufferings. Idris had shared Perdita’s ill
opinion of the Greek; but Raymond’s account softened and interested
her. Evadne’s constancy, fortitude, even her ill-fated and
ill-regulated love, were matter of admiration and pity; especially
when, from the detail of the events of the nineteenth of October, it
was apparent that she preferred suffering and death to any in her eyes
degrading application for the pity and assistance of her lover. Her
subsequent conduct did not diminish this interest. At first, relieved
from famine and the grave, watched over by Raymond with the tenderest
assiduity, with that feeling of repose peculiar to convalescence,
Evadne gave herself up to rapturous gratitude and love. But reflection
returned with health. She questioned him with regard to the motives
which had occasioned his critical absence. She framed her enquiries
with Greek subtlety; she formed her conclusions with the decision and
firmness peculiar to her disposition. She could not divine, that the
breach which she had occasioned between Raymond and Perdita was already
irreparable: but she knew, that under the present system it would be
widened each day, and that its result must be to destroy her lover’s
happiness, and to implant the fangs of remorse in his heart. From the
moment that she perceived the right line of conduct, she resolved to
adopt it, and to part from Raymond for ever. Conflicting passions,
long-cherished love, and self-inflicted disappointment, made her regard
death alone as sufficient refuge for her woe. But the same feelings and
opinions which had before restrained her, acted with redoubled force;
for she knew that the reflection that he had occasioned her death,
would pursue Raymond through life, poisoning every enjoyment, clouding
every prospect. Besides, though the violence of her anguish made life
hateful, it had not yet produced that monotonous, lethargic sense of
changeless misery which for the most part produces suicide. Her energy
of character induced her still to combat with the ills of life; even
those attendant on hopeless love presented themselves, rather in the
shape of an adversary to be overcome, than of a victor to whom she must
submit. Besides, she had memories of past tenderness to cherish,
smiles, words, and even tears, to con over, which, though remembered in
desertion and sorrow, were to be preferred to the forgetfulness of the
grave. It was impossible to guess at the whole of her plan. Her letter
to Raymond gave no clue for discovery; it assured him, that she was in
no danger of wanting the means of life; she promised in it to preserve
herself, and some future day perhaps to present herself to him in a
station not unworthy of her. She then bade him, with the eloquence of
despair and of unalterable love, a last farewell.
All these circumstances were now related to Adrian and Idris. Raymond
then lamented the cureless evil of his situation with Perdita. He
declared, notwithstanding her harshness, he even called it coldness,
that he loved her. He had been ready once with the humility of a
penitent, and the duty of a vassal, to surrender himself to her; giving
up his very soul to her tutelage, to become her pupil, her slave, her
bondsman. She had rejected these advances; and the time for such
exuberant submission, which must be founded on love and nourished by
it, was now passed. Still all his wishes and endeavours were directed
towards her peace, and his chief discomfort arose from the perception
that he exerted himself in vain. If she were to continue inflexible in
the line of conduct she now pursued, they must part. The combinations
and occurrences of this senseless mode of intercourse were maddening to
him. Yet he would not propose the separation. He was haunted by the
fear of causing the death of one or other of the beings implicated in
these events; and he could not persuade himself to undertake to direct
the course of events, lest, ignorant of the land he traversed, he
should lead those attached to the car into irremediable ruin.
After a discussion on this subject, which lasted for several hours, he
took leave of his friends, and returned to town, unwilling to meet
Perdita before us, conscious, as we all must be, of the thoughts
uppermost in the minds of both. Perdita prepared to follow him with her
child. Idris endeavoured to persuade her to remain. My poor sister
looked at the counsellor with affright. She knew that Raymond had
conversed with her; had he instigated this request?—was this to be the
prelude to their eternal separation?—I have said, that the defects of
her character awoke and acquired vigour from her unnatural position.
She regarded with suspicion the invitation of Idris; she embraced me,
as if she were about to be deprived of my affection also: calling me
her more than brother, her only friend, her last hope, she pathetically
conjured me not to cease to love her; and with encreased anxiety she
departed for London, the scene and cause of all her misery.
The scenes that followed, convinced her that she had not yet fathomed
the obscure gulph into which she had plunged. Her unhappiness assumed
every day a new shape; every day some unexpected event seemed to close,
while in fact it led onward, the train of calamities which now befell
her.
The selected passion of the soul of Raymond was ambition. Readiness of
talent, a capacity of entering into, and leading the dispositions of
men; earnest desire of distinction were the awakeners and nurses of his
ambition. But other ingredients mingled with these, and prevented him
from becoming the calculating, determined character, which alone forms
a successful hero. He was obstinate, but not firm; benevolent in his
first movements; harsh and reckless when provoked. Above all, he was
remorseless and unyielding in the pursuit of any object of desire,
however lawless. Love of pleasure, and the softer sensibilities of our
nature, made a prominent part of his character, conquering the
conqueror; holding him in at the moment of acquisition; sweeping away
ambition’s web; making him forget the toil of weeks, for the sake of
one moment’s indulgence of the new and actual object of his wishes.
Obeying these impulses, he had become the husband of Perdita: egged on
by them, he found himself the lover of Evadne. He had now lost both. He
had neither the ennobling self-gratulation, which constancy inspires,
to console him, nor the voluptuous sense of abandonment to a forbidden,
but intoxicating passion. His heart was exhausted by the recent events;
his enjoyment of life was destroyed by the resentment of Perdita, and
the flight of Evadne; and the inflexibility of the former, set the last
seal upon the annihilation of his hopes. As long as their disunion
remained a secret, he cherished an expectation of re-awakening past
tenderness in her bosom; now that we were all made acquainted with
these occurrences, and that Perdita, by declaring her resolves to
others, in a manner pledged herself to their accomplishment, he gave up
the idea of re-union as futile, and sought only, since he was unable to
influence her to change, to reconcile himself to the present state of
things. He made a vow against love and its train of struggles,
disappointment and remorse, and sought in mere sensual enjoyment, a
remedy for the injurious inroads of passion.
Debasement of character is the certain follower of such pursuits. Yet
this consequence would not have been immediately remarkable, if Raymond
had continued to apply himself to the execution of his plans for the
public benefit, and the fulfilling his duties as Protector. But,
extreme in all things, given up to immediate impressions, he entered
with ardour into this new pursuit of pleasure, and followed up the
incongruous intimacies occasioned by it without reflection or
foresight. The council-chamber was deserted; the crowds which attended
on him as agents to his various projects were neglected. Festivity, and
even libertinism, became the order of the day.
Perdita beheld with affright the encreasing disorder. For a moment she
thought that she could stem the torrent, and that Raymond could be
induced to hear reason from her.—Vain hope! The moment of her influence
was passed. He listened with haughtiness, replied disdainfully; and, if
in truth, she succeeded in awakening his conscience, the sole effect
was that he sought an opiate for the pang in oblivious riot. With the
energy natural to her, Perdita then endeavoured to supply his place.
Their still apparent union permitted her to do much; but no woman
could, in the end, present a remedy to the encreasing negligence of the
Protector; who, as if seized with a paroxysm of insanity, trampled on
all ceremony, all order, all duty, and gave himself up to license.
Reports of these strange proceedings reached us, and we were undecided
what method to adopt to restore our friend to himself and his country,
when Perdita suddenly appeared among us. She detailed the progress of
the mournful change, and entreated Adrian and myself to go up to
London, and endeavour to remedy the encreasing evil:—“Tell him,” she
cried, “tell Lord Raymond, that my presence shall no longer annoy him.
That he need not plunge into this destructive dissipation for the sake
of disgusting me, and causing me to fly. This purpose is now
accomplished; he will never see me more. But let me, it is my last
entreaty, let me in the praises of his countrymen and the prosperity of
England, find the choice of my youth justified.”
During our ride up to town, Adrian and I discussed and argued upon
Raymond’s conduct, and his falling off from the hopes of permanent
excellence on his part, which he had before given us cause to
entertain. My friend and I had both been educated in one school, or
rather I was his pupil in the opinion, that steady adherence to
principle was the only road to honour; a ceaseless observance of the
laws of general utility, the only conscientious aim of human ambition.
But though we both entertained these ideas, we differed in their
application. Resentment added also a sting to my censure; and I
reprobated Raymond’s conduct in severe terms. Adrian was more benign,
more considerate. He admitted that the principles that I laid down were
the best; but he denied that they were the only ones. Quoting the text,
_there are many mansions in my father’s house_, he insisted that the
modes of becoming good or great, varied as much as the dispositions of
men, of whom it might be said, as of the leaves of the forest, there
were no two alike.
We arrived in London at about eleven at night. We conjectured,
notwithstanding what we had heard, that we should find Raymond in St.
Stephen’s: thither we sped. The chamber was full—but there was no
Protector; and there was an austere discontent manifest on the
countenances of the leaders, and a whispering and busy tattle among the
underlings, not less ominous. We hastened to the palace of the
Protectorate. We found Raymond in his dining room with six others: the
bottle was being pushed about merrily, and had made considerable
inroads on the understanding of one or two. He who sat near Raymond was
telling a story, which convulsed the rest with laughter.
Raymond sat among them, though while he entered into the spirit of the
hour, his natural dignity never forsook him. He was gay, playful,
fascinating—but never did he overstep the modesty of nature, or the
respect due to himself, in his wildest sallies. Yet I own, that
considering the task which Raymond had taken on himself as Protector of
England, and the cares to which it became him to attend, I was
exceedingly provoked to observe the worthless fellows on whom his time
was wasted, and the jovial if not drunken spirit which seemed on the
point of robbing him of his better self. I stood watching the scene,
while Adrian flitted like a shadow in among them, and, by a word and
look of sobriety, endeavoured to restore order in the assembly. Raymond
expressed himself delighted to see him, declaring that he should make
one in the festivity of the night.
This action of Adrian provoked me. I was indignant that he should sit
at the same table with the companions of Raymond—men of abandoned
characters, or rather without any, the refuse of high-bred luxury, the
disgrace of their country. “Let me entreat Adrian,” I cried, “not to
comply: rather join with me in endeavouring to withdraw Lord Raymond
from this scene, and restore him to other society.”
“My good fellow,” said Raymond, “this is neither the time nor place for
the delivery of a moral lecture: take my word for it that my amusements
and society are not so bad as you imagine. We are neither hypocrites or
fools —for the rest, ‘Dost thou think because thou art virtuous, there
shall be no more cakes and ale?’”
I turned angrily away: “Verney,” said Adrian, “you are very cynical:
sit down; or if you will not, perhaps, as you are not a frequent
visitor, Lord Raymond will humour you, and accompany us, as we had
previously agreed upon, to parliament.”
Raymond looked keenly at him; he could read benignity only in his
gentle lineaments; he turned to me, observing with scorn my moody and
stern demeanour. “Come,” said Adrian, “I have promised for you, enable
me to keep my engagement. Come with us.”—Raymond made an uneasy
movement, and laconically replied—“I won’t!”
The party in the mean time had broken up. They looked at the pictures,
strolled into the other apartments, talked of billiards, and one by one
vanished. Raymond strode angrily up and down the room. I stood ready to
receive and reply to his reproaches. Adrian leaned against the wall.
“This is infinitely ridiculous,” he cried, “if you were school-boys,
you could not conduct yourselves more unreasonably.”
“You do not understand,” said Raymond. “This is only part of a
system:—a scheme of tyranny to which I will never submit. Because I am
Protector of England, am I to be the only slave in its empire? My
privacy invaded, my actions censured, my friends insulted? But I will
get rid of the whole together.—Be you witnesses,” and he took the star,
insignia of office, from his breast, and threw it on the table. “I
renounce my office, I abdicate my power—assume it who will!”—-
“Let him assume it,” exclaimed Adrian, “who can pronounce himself, or
whom the world will pronounce to be your superior. There does not exist
the man in England with adequate presumption. Know yourself, Raymond,
and your indignation will cease; your complacency return. A few months
ago, whenever we prayed for the prosperity of our country, or our own,
we at the same time prayed for the life and welfare of the Protector,
as indissolubly linked to it. Your hours were devoted to our benefit,
your ambition was to obtain our commendation. You decorated our towns
with edifices, you bestowed on us useful establishments, you gifted the
soil with abundant fertility. The powerful and unjust cowered at the
steps of your judgment-seat, and the poor and oppressed arose like
morn-awakened flowers under the sunshine of your protection.
“Can you wonder that we are all aghast and mourn, when this appears
changed? But, come, this splenetic fit is already passed; resume your
functions; your partizans will hail you; your enemies be silenced; our
love, honour, and duty will again be manifested towards you. Master
yourself, Raymond, and the world is subject to you.”
“All this would be very good sense, if addressed to another,” replied
Raymond, moodily, “con the lesson yourself, and you, the first peer of
the land, may become its sovereign. You the good, the wise, the just,
may rule all hearts. But I perceive, too soon for my own happiness, too
late for England’s good, that I undertook a task to which I am unequal.
I cannot rule myself. My passions are my masters; my smallest impulse
my tyrant. Do you think that I renounced the Protectorate (and I have
renounced it) in a fit of spleen? By the God that lives, I swear never
to take up that bauble again; never again to burthen myself with the
weight of care and misery, of which that is the visible sign.
“Once I desired to be a king. It was in the hey-day of youth, in the
pride of boyish folly. I knew myself when I renounced it. I renounced
it to gain —no matter what—for that also I have lost. For many months I
have submitted to this mock majesty—this solemn jest. I am its dupe no
longer. I will be free.
“I have lost that which adorned and dignified my life; that which
linked me to other men. Again I am a solitary man; and I will become
again, as in my early years, a wanderer, a soldier of fortune. My
friends, for Verney, I feel that you are my friend, do not endeavour to
shake my resolve. Perdita, wedded to an imagination, careless of what
is behind the veil, whose charactery is in truth faulty and vile,
Perdita has renounced me. With her it was pretty enough to play a
sovereign’s part; and, as in the recesses of your beloved forest we
acted masques, and imagined ourselves Arcadian shepherds, to please the
fancy of the moment—so was I content, more for Perdita’s sake than my
own, to take on me the character of one of the great ones of the earth;
to lead her behind the scenes of grandeur, to vary her life with a
short act of magnificence and power. This was to be the colour; love
and confidence the substance of our existence. But we must live, and
not act our lives; pursuing the shadow, I lost the reality—now I
renounce both.
“Adrian, I am about to return to Greece, to become again a soldier,
perhaps a conqueror. Will you accompany me? You will behold new scenes;
see a new people; witness the mighty struggle there going forward
between civilization and barbarism; behold, and perhaps direct the
efforts of a young and vigorous population, for liberty and order. Come
with me. I have expected you. I waited for this moment; all is
prepared;—will you accompany me?”
“I will,” replied Adrian. “Immediately?”
“To-morrow if you will.”
“Reflect!” I cried.
“Wherefore?” asked Raymond—“My dear fellow, I have done nothing else
than reflect on this step the live-long summer; and be assured that
Adrian has condensed an age of reflection into this little moment. Do
not talk of reflection; from this moment I abjure it; this is my only
happy moment during a long interval of time. I must go, Lionel—the Gods
will it; and I must. Do not endeavour to deprive me of my companion,
the out-cast’s friend.
“One word more concerning unkind, unjust Perdita. For a time, I thought
that, by watching a complying moment, fostering the still warm ashes, I
might relume in her the flame of love. It is more cold within her, than
a fire left by gypsies in winter-time, the spent embers crowned by a
pyramid of snow. Then, in endeavouring to do violence to my own
disposition, I made all worse than before. Still I think, that time,
and even absence, may restore her to me. Remember, that I love her
still, that my dearest hope is that she will again be mine. I know,
though she does not, how false the veil is which she has spread over
the reality—do not endeavour to rend this deceptive covering, but by
degrees withdraw it. Present her with a mirror, in which she may know
herself; and, when she is an adept in that necessary but difficult
science, she will wonder at her present mistake, and hasten to restore
to me, what is by right mine, her forgiveness, her kind thoughts, her
love.”
CHAPTER X.
After these events, it was long before we were able to attain any
degree of composure. A moral tempest had wrecked our richly freighted
vessel, and we, remnants of the diminished crew, were aghast at the
losses and changes which we had undergone. Idris passionately loved her
brother, and could ill brook an absence whose duration was uncertain;
his society was dear and necessary to me—I had followed up my chosen
literary occupations with delight under his tutorship and assistance;
his mild philosophy, unerring reason, and enthusiastic friendship were
the best ingredient, the exalted spirit of our circle; even the
children bitterly regretted the loss of their kind playfellow. Deeper
grief oppressed Perdita. In spite of resentment, by day and night she
figured to herself the toils and dangers of the wanderers. Raymond
absent, struggling with difficulties, lost to the power and rank of the
Protectorate, exposed to the perils of war, became an object of anxious
interest; not that she felt any inclination to recall him, if recall
must imply a return to their former union. Such return she felt to be
impossible; and while she believed it to be thus, and with anguish
regretted that so it should be, she continued angry and impatient with
him, who occasioned her misery. These perplexities and regrets caused
her to bathe her pillow with nightly tears, and to reduce her in person
and in mind to the shadow of what she had been. She sought solitude,
and avoided us when in gaiety and unrestrained affection we met in a
family circle. Lonely musings, interminable wanderings, and solemn
music were her only pastimes. She neglected even her child; shutting
her heart against all tenderness, she grew reserved towards me, her
first and fast friend.
I could not see her thus lost, without exerting myself to remedy the
evil —remediless I knew, if I could not in the end bring her to
reconcile herself to Raymond. Before he went I used every argument,
every persuasion to induce her to stop his journey. She answered the
one with a gush of tears—telling me that to be persuaded—life and the
goods of life were a cheap exchange. It was not will that she wanted,
but the capacity; again and again she declared, it were as easy to
enchain the sea, to put reins on the wind’s viewless courses, as for
her to take truth for falsehood, deceit for honesty, heartless
communion for sincere, confiding love. She answered my reasonings more
briefly, declaring with disdain, that the reason was hers; and, until I
could persuade her that the past could be unacted, that maturity could
go back to the cradle, and that all that was could become as though it
had never been, it was useless to assure her that no real change had
taken place in her fate. And thus with stern pride she suffered him to
go, though her very heart-strings cracked at the fulfilling of the act,
which rent from her all that made life valuable.
To change the scene for her, and even for ourselves, all unhinged by
the cloud that had come over us, I persuaded my two remaining
companions that it were better that we should absent ourselves for a
time from Windsor. We visited the north of England, my native Ulswater,
and lingered in scenes dear from a thousand associations. We lengthened
our tour into Scotland, that we might see Loch Katrine and Loch Lomond;
thence we crossed to Ireland, and passed several weeks in the
neighbourhood of Killarney. The change of scene operated to a great
degree as I expected; after a year’s absence, Perdita returned in
gentler and more docile mood to Windsor. The first sight of this place
for a time unhinged her. Here every spot was distinct with associations
now grown bitter. The forest glades, the ferny dells, and lawny
uplands, the cultivated and cheerful country spread around the silver
pathway of ancient Thames, all earth, air, and wave, took up one choral
voice, inspired by memory, instinct with plaintive regret.
But my essay towards bringing her to a saner view of her own situation,
did not end here. Perdita was still to a great degree uneducated. When
first she left her peasant life, and resided with the elegant and
cultivated Evadne, the only accomplishment she brought to any
perfection was that of painting, for which she had a taste almost
amounting to genius. This had occupied her in her lonely cottage, when
she quitted her Greek friend’s protection. Her pallet and easel were
now thrown aside; did she try to paint, thronging recollections made
her hand tremble, her eyes fill with tears. With this occupation she
gave up almost every other; and her mind preyed upon itself almost to
madness.
For my own part, since Adrian had first withdrawn me from my selvatic
wilderness to his own paradise of order and beauty, I had been wedded
to literature. I felt convinced that however it might have been in
former times, in the present stage of the world, no man’s faculties
could be developed, no man’s moral principle be enlarged and liberal,
without an extensive acquaintance with books. To me they stood in the
place of an active career, of ambition, and those palpable excitements
necessary to the multitude. The collation of philosophical opinions,
the study of historical facts, the acquirement of languages, were at
once my recreation, and the serious aim of my life. I turned author
myself. My productions however were sufficiently unpretending; they
were confined to the biography of favourite historical characters,
especially those whom I believed to have been traduced, or about whom
clung obscurity and doubt.
As my authorship increased, I acquired new sympathies and pleasures. I
found another and a valuable link to enchain me to my fellow-creatures;
my point of sight was extended, and the inclinations and capacities of
all human beings became deeply interesting to me. Kings have been
called the fathers of their people. Suddenly I became as it were the
father of all mankind. Posterity became my heirs. My thoughts were gems
to enrich the treasure house of man’s intellectual possessions; each
sentiment was a precious gift I bestowed on them. Let not these
aspirations be attributed to vanity. They were not expressed in words,
nor even reduced to form in my own mind; but they filled my soul,
exalting my thoughts, raising a glow of enthusiasm, and led me out of
the obscure path in which I before walked, into the bright
noon-enlightened highway of mankind, making me, citizen of the world, a
candidate for immortal honors, an eager aspirant to the praise and
sympathy of my fellow men.
No one certainly ever enjoyed the pleasures of composition more
intensely than I. If I left the woods, the solemn music of the waving
branches, and the majestic temple of nature, I sought the vast halls of
the Castle, and looked over wide, fertile England, spread beneath our
regal mount, and listened the while to inspiring strains of music. At
such times solemn harmonies or spirit-stirring airs gave wings to my
lagging thoughts, permitting them, methought, to penetrate the last
veil of nature and her God, and to display the highest beauty in
visible expression to the understandings of men. As the music went on,
my ideas seemed to quit their mortal dwelling house; they shook their
pinions and began a flight, sailing on the placid current of thought,
filling the creation with new glory, and rousing sublime imagery that
else had slept voiceless. Then I would hasten to my desk, weave the
new-found web of mind in firm texture and brilliant colours, leaving
the fashioning of the material to a calmer moment.
But this account, which might as properly belong to a former period of
my life as to the present moment, leads me far afield. It was the
pleasure I took in literature, the discipline of mind I found arise
from it, that made me eager to lead Perdita to the same pursuits. I
began with light hand and gentle allurement; first exciting her
curiosity, and then satisfying it in such a way as might occasion her,
at the same time that she half forgot her sorrows in occupation, to
find in the hours that succeeded a reaction of benevolence and
toleration.
Intellectual activity, though not directed towards books, had always
been my sister’s characteristic. It had been displayed early in life,
leading her out to solitary musing among her native mountains, causing
her to form innumerous combinations from common objects, giving
strength to her perceptions, and swiftness to their arrangement. Love
had come, as the rod of the master-prophet, to swallow up every minor
propensity. Love had doubled all her excellencies, and placed a diadem
on her genius. Was she to cease to love? Take the colours and odour
from the rose, change the sweet nutriment of mother’s milk to gall and
poison; as easily might you wean Perdita from love. She grieved for the
loss of Raymond with an anguish, that exiled all smile from her lips,
and trenched sad lines on her brow of beauty. But each day seemed to
change the nature of her suffering, and every succeeding hour forced
her to alter (if so I may style it) the fashion of her soul’s mourning
garb. For a time music was able to satisfy the cravings of her mental
hunger, and her melancholy thoughts renewed themselves in each change
of key, and varied with every alteration in the strain. My schooling
first impelled her towards books; and, if music had been the food of
sorrow, the productions of the wise became its medicine. The
acquisition of unknown languages was too tedious an occupation, for one
who referred every expression to the universe within, and read not, as
many do, for the mere sake of filling up time; but who was still
questioning herself and her author, moulding every idea in a thousand
ways, ardently desirous for the discovery of truth in every sentence.
She sought to improve her understanding; mechanically her heart and
dispositions became soft and gentle under this benign discipline. After
awhile she discovered, that amidst all her newly acquired knowledge,
her own character, which formerly she fancied that she thoroughly
understood, became the first in rank among the terrae incognitae, the
pathless wilds of a country that had no chart. Erringly and strangely
she began the task of self-examination with self-condemnation. And then
again she became aware of her own excellencies, and began to balance
with juster scales the shades of good and evil. I, who longed beyond
words, to restore her to the happiness it was still in her power to
enjoy, watched with anxiety the result of these internal proceedings.
But man is a strange animal. We cannot calculate on his forces like
that of an engine; and, though an impulse draw with a forty-horse power
at what appears willing to yield to one, yet in contempt of calculation
the movement is not effected. Neither grief, philosophy, nor love could
make Perdita think with mildness of the dereliction of Raymond. She now
took pleasure in my society; towards Idris she felt and displayed a
full and affectionate sense of her worth—she restored to her child in
abundant measure her tenderness and care. But I could discover, amidst
all her repinings, deep resentment towards Raymond, and an unfading
sense of injury, that plucked from me my hope, when I appeared nearest
to its fulfilment. Among other painful restrictions, she has occasioned
it to become a law among us, never to mention Raymond’s name before
her. She refused to read any communications from Greece, desiring me
only to mention when any arrived, and whether the wanderers were well.
It was curious that even little Clara observed this law towards her
mother. This lovely child was nearly eight years of age. Formerly she
had been a light-hearted infant, fanciful, but gay and childish. After
the departure of her father, thought became impressed on her young
brow. Children, unadepts in language, seldom find words to express
their thoughts, nor could we tell in what manner the late events had
impressed themselves on her mind. But certainly she had made deep
observations while she noted in silence the changes that passed around
her. She never mentioned her father to Perdita, she appeared half
afraid when she spoke of him to me, and though I tried to draw her out
on the subject, and to dispel the gloom that hung about her ideas
concerning him, I could not succeed. Yet each foreign post-day she
watched for the arrival of letters—knew the post mark, and watched me
as I read. I found her often poring over the article of Greek
intelligence in the newspaper.
There is no more painful sight than that of untimely care in children,
and it was particularly observable in one whose disposition had
heretofore been mirthful. Yet there was so much sweetness and docility
about Clara, that your admiration was excited; and if the moods of mind
are calculated to paint the cheek with beauty, and endow motions with
grace, surely her contemplations must have been celestial; since every
lineament was moulded into loveliness, and her motions were more
harmonious than the elegant boundings of the fawns of her native
forest. I sometimes expostulated with Perdita on the subject of her
reserve; but she rejected my counsels, while her daughter’s sensibility
excited in her a tenderness still more passionate.
After the lapse of more than a year, Adrian returned from Greece.
When our exiles had first arrived, a truce was in existence between the
Turks and Greeks; a truce that was as sleep to the mortal frame, signal
of renewed activity on waking. With the numerous soldiers of Asia, with
all of warlike stores, ships, and military engines, that wealth and
power could command, the Turks at once resolved to crush an enemy,
which creeping on by degrees, had from their stronghold in the Morea,
acquired Thrace and Macedonia, and had led their armies even to the
gates of Constantinople, while their extensive commercial relations
gave every European nation an interest in their success. Greece
prepared for a vigorous resistance; it rose to a man; and the women,
sacrificing their costly ornaments, accoutred their sons for the war,
and bade them conquer or die with the spirit of the Spartan mother. The
talents and courage of Raymond were highly esteemed among the Greeks.
Born at Athens, that city claimed him for her own, and by giving him
the command of her peculiar division in the army, the
commander-in-chief only possessed superior power. He was numbered among
her citizens, his name was added to the list of Grecian heroes. His
judgment, activity, and consummate bravery, justified their choice. The
Earl of Windsor became a volunteer under his friend.
“It is well,” said Adrian, “to prate of war in these pleasant shades,
and with much ill-spent oil make a show of joy, because many thousand
of our fellow-creatures leave with pain this sweet air and natal earth.
I shall not be suspected of being averse to the Greek cause; I know and
feel its necessity; it is beyond every other a good cause. I have
defended it with my sword, and was willing that my spirit should be
breathed out in its defence; freedom is of more worth than life, and
the Greeks do well to defend their privilege unto death. But let us not
deceive ourselves. The Turks are men; each fibre, each limb is as
feeling as our own, and every spasm, be it mental or bodily, is as
truly felt in a Turk’s heart or brain, as in a Greek’s. The last action
at which I was present was the taking of ——. The Turks resisted to the
last, the garrison perished on the ramparts, and we entered by assault.
Every breathing creature within the walls was massacred. Think you,
amidst the shrieks of violated innocence and helpless infancy, I did
not feel in every nerve the cry of a fellow being? They were men and
women, the sufferers, before they were Mahometans, and when they rise
turbanless from the grave, in what except their good or evil actions
will they be the better or worse than we? Two soldiers contended for a
girl, whose rich dress and extreme beauty excited the brutal appetites
of these wretches, who, perhaps good men among their families, were
changed by the fury of the moment into incarnated evils. An old man,
with a silver beard, decrepid and bald, he might be her grandfather,
interposed to save her; the battle axe of one of them clove his skull.
I rushed to her defence, but rage made them blind and deaf; they did
not distinguish my Christian garb or heed my words—words were blunt
weapons then, for while war cried “havoc,” and murder gave fit echo,
how could I—
Turn back the tide of ills, relieving wrong
With mild accost of soothing eloquence?
One of the fellows, enraged at my interference, struck me with his
bayonet in the side, and I fell senseless.
“This wound will probably shorten my life, having shattered a frame,
weak of itself. But I am content to die. I have learnt in Greece that
one man, more or less, is of small import, while human bodies remain to
fill up the thinned ranks of the soldiery; and that the identity of an
individual may be overlooked, so that the muster roll contain its full
numbers. All this has a different effect upon Raymond. He is able to
contemplate the ideal of war, while I am sensible only to its
realities. He is a soldier, a general. He can influence the
blood-thirsty war-dogs, while I resist their propensities vainly. The
cause is simple. Burke has said that, ‘in all bodies those who would
lead, must also, in a considerable degree, follow.’ —I cannot follow;
for I do not sympathize in their dreams of massacre and glory—to follow
and to lead in such a career, is the natural bent of Raymond’s mind. He
is always successful, and bids fair, at the same time that he acquires
high name and station for himself, to secure liberty, probably extended
empire, to the Greeks.”
Perdita’s mind was not softened by this account. He, she thought, can
be great and happy without me. Would that I also had a career! Would
that I could freight some untried bark with all my hopes, energies, and
desires, and launch it forth into the ocean of life—bound for some
attainable point, with ambition or pleasure at the helm! But adverse
winds detain me on shore; like Ulysses, I sit at the water’s edge and
weep. But my nerveless hands can neither fell the trees, nor smooth the
planks. Under the influence of these melancholy thoughts, she became
more than ever in love with sorrow. Yet Adrian’s presence did some
good; he at once broke through the law of silence observed concerning
Raymond. At first she started from the unaccustomed sound; soon she got
used to it and to love it, and she listened with avidity to the account
of his achievements. Clara got rid also of her restraint; Adrian and
she had been old playfellows; and now, as they walked or rode together,
he yielded to her earnest entreaty, and repeated, for the hundredth
time, some tale of her father’s bravery, munificence, or justice.
Each vessel in the mean time brought exhilarating tidings from Greece.
The presence of a friend in its armies and councils made us enter into
the details with enthusiasm; and a short letter now and then from
Raymond told us how he was engrossed by the interests of his adopted
country. The Greeks were strongly attached to their commercial
pursuits, and would have been satisfied with their present
acquisitions, had not the Turks roused them by invasion. The patriots
were victorious; a spirit of conquest was instilled; and already they
looked on Constantinople as their own. Raymond rose perpetually in
their estimation; but one man held a superior command to him in their
armies. He was conspicuous for his conduct and choice of position in a
battle fought in the plains of Thrace, on the banks of the Hebrus,
which was to decide the fate of Islam. The Mahometans were defeated,
and driven entirely from the country west of this river. The battle was
sanguinary, the loss of the Turks apparently irreparable; the Greeks,
in losing one man, forgot the nameless crowd strewed upon the bloody
field, and they ceased to value themselves on a victory, which cost
them— Raymond.
At the battle of Makri he had led the charge of cavalry, and pursued
the fugitives even to the banks of the Hebrus. His favourite horse was
found grazing by the margin of the tranquil river. It became a question
whether he had fallen among the unrecognized; but no broken ornament or
stained trapping betrayed his fate. It was suspected that the Turks,
finding themselves possessed of so illustrious a captive, resolved to
satisfy their cruelty rather than their avarice, and fearful of the
interference of England, had come to the determination of concealing
for ever the cold-blooded murder of the soldier they most hated and
feared in the squadrons of their enemy.
Raymond was not forgotten in England. His abdication of the
Protectorate had caused an unexampled sensation; and, when his
magnificent and manly system was contrasted with the narrow views of
succeeding politicians, the period of his elevation was referred to
with sorrow. The perpetual recurrence of his name, joined to most
honourable testimonials, in the Greek gazettes, kept up the interest he
had excited. He seemed the favourite child of fortune, and his untimely
loss eclipsed the world, and shewed forth the remnant of mankind with
diminished lustre. They clung with eagerness to the hope held out that
he might yet be alive. Their minister at Constantinople was urged to
make the necessary perquisitions, and should his existence be
ascertained, to demand his release. It was to be hoped that their
efforts would succeed, and that though now a prisoner, the sport of
cruelty and the mark of hate, he would be rescued from danger and
restored to the happiness, power, and honour which he deserved.
The effect of this intelligence upon my sister was striking. She never
for a moment credited the story of his death; she resolved instantly to
go to Greece. Reasoning and persuasion were thrown away upon her; she
would endure no hindrance, no delay. It may be advanced for a truth,
that, if argument or entreaty can turn any one from a desperate
purpose, whose motive and end depends on the strength of the affections
only, then it is right so to turn them, since their docility shews,
that neither the motive nor the end were of sufficient force to bear
them through the obstacles attendant on their undertaking. If, on the
contrary, they are proof against expostulation, this very steadiness is
an omen of success; and it becomes the duty of those who love them, to
assist in smoothing the obstructions in their path. Such sentiments
actuated our little circle. Finding Perdita immoveable, we consulted as
to the best means of furthering her purpose. She could not go alone to
a country where she had no friends, where she might arrive only to hear
the dreadful news, which must overwhelm her with grief and remorse.
Adrian, whose health had always been weak, now suffered considerable
aggravation of suffering from the effects of his wound. Idris could not
endure to leave him in this state; nor was it right either to quit or
take with us a young family for a journey of this description. I
resolved at length to accompany Perdita. The separation from my Idris
was painful—but necessity reconciled us to it in some degree: necessity
and the hope of saving Raymond, and restoring him again to happiness
and Perdita. No delay was to ensue. Two days after we came to our
determination, we set out for Portsmouth, and embarked. The season was
May, the weather stormless; we were promised a prosperous voyage.
Cherishing the most fervent hopes, embarked on the waste ocean, we saw
with delight the receding shore of Britain, and on the wings of desire
outspeeded our well filled sails towards the South. The light curling
waves bore us onward, and old ocean smiled at the freight of love and
hope committed to his charge; it stroked gently its tempestuous plains,
and the path was smoothed for us. Day and night the wind right aft,
gave steady impulse to our keel—nor did rough gale, or treacherous
sand, or destructive rock interpose an obstacle between my sister and
the land which was to restore her to her first beloved,
Her dear heart’s confessor—a heart within that heart.
VOL. II.
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 “_He suffers_”
was the burthen of all her thoughts. She abstained from food; she lay
on the bare earth, and, by such mimickry of his enforced torments,
endeavoured to hold 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.”[1]
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.
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 sun-shine falling on a dark
valley, displays its before hidden characteristics; and now this smile,
the same with which he first spoke love to Perdita, with which he had
welcomed the protectorate, playing on his altered countenance, made me
in my heart’s core feel that this was 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, near Kishan, a town of some
importance, situated to the east of the Hebrus; in which Perdita and
Clara were to remain until the event of the expected battle. We quitted
Athens on the 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,”[2]
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.
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 _Evive_ of the peasant crowd.
When we arrived at Kishan, we learnt, that on hearing of the advance of
Lord Raymond and his detachment, the Turkish army had 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.
[1] Lord Byron’s Fourth Canto of Childe Harolde.
[2] Shakspeare’s Sonnets.
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.”[3]
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.
“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.
[3] Calderon de la Barca.
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 its very vehemence, is mute. The poor animal
recognised me, licked my hand, crept close to its lord, and died. He
had been evidently thrown from his horse by some falling ruin, which
had crushed his head, and defaced his whole person. I bent over the
body, and took in my hand the edge of his cloak, less altered in
appearance than the 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 Œrta 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.
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.[4] 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.”
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. Idris, the most affectionate wife, sister and friend, was
a tender and loving mother. The feeling was not with her as with many,
a pastime; it was a passion. We had had three children; one, the second
in age, died while I was in Greece. This had dashed the triumphant and
rapturous emotions of maternity with grief and fear. Before this event,
the little beings, sprung from herself, the young heirs of her
transient life, seemed to have a sure lease of existence; now she
dreaded that the pitiless destroyer might snatch her remaining
darlings, as it had snatched their brother. The least illness caused
throes of terror; she was miserable if she were at all absent from
them; her treasure of happiness she had garnered in their fragile
being, and kept forever on the watch, lest the insidious thief should
as before steal these valued gems. She had fortunately small cause for
fear. Alfred, now nine years old, was an upright, manly little fellow,
with radiant brow, soft eyes, and gentle, though independent
disposition. Our youngest was yet in infancy; but his downy cheek was
sprinkled with the roses of health, and his unwearied vivacity filled
our halls with innocent laughter.
Clara had passed the age which, from its mute ignorance, was the source
of the fears of Idris. Clara was dear to her, to all. There was so much
intelligence combined with innocence, sensibility with forbearance, and
seriousness with perfect good-humour, a beauty so transcendant, united
to such endearing simplicity, that she hung like a pearl in the shrine
of our possessions, a treasure of wonder and excellence.
At the beginning of winter our Alfred, now nine years of age, first
went to school at Eton. This appeared to him the primary step towards
manhood, and he was proportionably pleased. Community of study and
amusement developed the best parts of his character, his steady
perseverance, generosity, and well-governed firmness. What deep and
sacred emotions are excited in a father’s bosom, when he first becomes
convinced that his love for his child is not a mere instinct, but
worthily bestowed, and that others, less akin, participate his
approbation! It was supreme happiness to Idris and myself, to find that
the frankness which Alfred’s open brow indicated, the intelligence of
his eyes, the tempered sensibility of his tones, were not delusions,
but indications of talents and virtues, which would “grow with his
growth, and strengthen with his strength.” At this period, the
termination of an animal’s love for its offspring,—the true affection
of the human parent commences. We no longer look on this dearest part
of ourselves, as a tender plant which we must cherish, or a plaything
for an idle hour. We build now on his intellectual faculties, we
establish our hopes on his moral propensities. His weakness still
imparts anxiety to this feeling, his ignorance prevents entire
intimacy; but we begin to respect the future man, and to endeavour to
secure his esteem, even as if he were our equal. What can a parent have
more at heart than the good opinion of his child? In all our
transactions with him our honour must be inviolate, the integrity of
our relations untainted: fate and circumstance may, when he arrives at
maturity, separate us for ever—but, as his aegis in danger, his
consolation in hardship, let the ardent youth for ever bear with him
through the rough path of life, love and honour for his parents.
We had lived so long in the vicinity of Eton, that its population of
young folks was well known to us. Many of them had been Alfred’s
playmates, before they became his school-fellows. We now watched this
youthful congregation with redoubled interest. We marked the difference
of character among the boys, and endeavoured to read the future man in
the stripling. There is nothing more lovely, to which the heart more
yearns than a free-spirited boy, gentle, brave, and generous. Several
of the Etonians had these characteristics; all were distinguished by a
sense of honour, and spirit of enterprize; in some, as they verged
towards manhood, this degenerated into presumption; but the younger
ones, lads a little older than our own, were conspicuous for their
gallant and sweet dispositions.
Here were the future governors of England; the men, who, when our
ardour was cold, and our projects completed or destroyed for ever,
when, our drama acted, we doffed the garb of the hour, and assumed the
uniform of age, or of more equalizing death; here were the beings who
were to carry on the vast machine of society; here were the lovers,
husbands, fathers; here the landlord, the politician, the soldier; some
fancied that they were even now ready to appear on the stage, eager to
make one among the dramatis personae of active life. It was not long
since I was like one of these beardless aspirants; when my boy shall
have obtained the place I now hold, I shall have tottered into a
grey-headed, wrinkled old man. Strange system! riddle of the Sphynx,
most awe-striking! that thus man remains, while we the individuals pass
away. Such is, to borrow the words of an eloquent and philosophic
writer, “the mode of existence decreed to a permanent body composed of
transitory parts; wherein, by the disposition of a stupendous wisdom,
moulding together the great mysterious incorporation of the human race,
the whole, at one time, is never old, or middle-aged, or young, but, in
a condition of unchangeable constancy, moves on through the varied
tenour of perpetual decay, fall, renovation, and progression.”[5]
Willingly do I give place to thee, dear Alfred! advance, offspring of
tender love, child of our hopes; advance a soldier on the road to which
I have been the pioneer! I will make way for thee. I have already put
off the carelessness of childhood, the unlined brow, and springy gait
of early years, that they may adorn thee. Advance; and I will despoil
myself still further for thy advantage. Time shall rob me of the graces
of maturity, shall take the fire from my eyes, and agility from my
limbs, shall steal the better part of life, eager expectation and
passionate love, and shower them in double portion on thy dear head.
Advance! avail thyself of the gift, thou and thy comrades; and in the
drama you are about to act, do not disgrace those who taught you to
enter on the stage, and to pronounce becomingly the parts assigned to
you! May your progress be uninterrupted and secure; born during the
spring-tide of the hopes of man, may you lead up the summer to which no
winter may succeed!
[4] See an ingenious Essay, entitled, “The Mythological Astronomy of
the Ancients Demonstrated,” by Mackey, a shoemaker, of Norwich printed
in 1822.
[5] Burke’s Reflections on the French Revolution.
CHAPTER V.
Some disorder had surely crept into the course of the elements,
destroying their benignant influence. The wind, prince of air, raged
through his kingdom, lashing the sea into fury, and subduing the rebel
earth into some sort of obedience.
The God sends down his angry plagues from high,
Famine and pestilence in heaps they die.
Again in vengeance of his wrath he falls
On their great hosts, and breaks their tottering walls;
Arrests their navies on the ocean’s plain,
And whelms their strength with mountains of the main.[6]
Their deadly power shook the flourishing countries of the south, and
during winter, even, we, in our northern retreat, began to quake under
their ill effects.
That fable is unjust, which gives the superiority to the sun over the
wind. Who has not seen the lightsome earth, the balmy atmosphere, and
basking nature become dark, cold and ungenial, when the sleeping wind
has awoke in the east? Or, when the dun clouds thickly veil the sky,
while exhaustless stores of rain are poured down, until, the dank earth
refusing to imbibe the superabundant moisture, it lies in pools on the
surface; when the torch of day seems like a meteor, to be quenched; who
has not seen the cloud-stirring north arise, the streaked blue appear,
and soon an opening made in the vapours in the eye of the wind, through
which the bright azure shines? The clouds become thin; an arch is
formed for ever rising upwards, till, the universal cope being
unveiled, the sun pours forth its rays, re-animated and fed by the
breeze.
Then mighty art thou, O wind, to be throned above all other vicegerents
of nature’s power; whether thou comest destroying from the east, or
pregnant with elementary life from the west; thee the clouds obey; the
sun is subservient to thee; the shoreless ocean is thy slave! Thou
sweepest over the earth, and oaks, the growth of centuries, submit to
thy viewless axe; the snow-drift is scattered on the pinnacles of the
Alps, the avalanche thunders down their vallies. Thou holdest the keys
of the frost, and canst first chain and then set free the streams;
under thy gentle governance the buds and leaves are born, they flourish
nursed by thee.
Why dost thou howl thus, O wind? By day and by night for four long
months thy roarings have not ceased—the shores of the sea are strewn
with wrecks, its keel-welcoming surface has become impassable, the
earth has shed her beauty in obedience to thy command; the frail
balloon dares no longer sail on the agitated air; thy ministers, the
clouds, deluge the land with rain; rivers forsake their banks; the wild
torrent tears up the mountain path; plain and wood, and verdant dell
are despoiled of their loveliness; our very cities are wasted by thee.
Alas, what will become of us? It seems as if the giant waves of ocean,
and vast arms of the sea, were about to wrench the deep-rooted island
from its centre; and cast it, a ruin and a wreck, upon the fields of
the Atlantic.
What are we, the inhabitants of this globe, least among the many that
people infinite space? Our minds embrace infinity; the visible
mechanism of our being is subject to merest accident. Day by day we are
forced to believe this. He whom a scratch has disorganized, he who
disappears from apparent life under the influence of the hostile agency
at work around us, had the same powers as I—I also am subject to the
same laws. In the face of all this we call ourselves lords of the
creation, wielders of the elements, masters of life and death, and we
allege in excuse of this arrogance, that though the individual is
destroyed, man continues for ever.
Thus, losing our identity, that of which we are chiefly conscious, we
glory in the continuity of our species, and learn to regard death
without terror. But when any whole nation becomes the victim of the
destructive powers of exterior agents, then indeed man shrinks into
insignificance, he feels his tenure of life insecure, his inheritance
on earth cut off.
I remember, after having witnessed the destructive effects of a fire, I
could not even behold a small one in a stove, without a sensation of
fear. The mounting flames had curled round the building, as it fell,
and was destroyed. They insinuated themselves into the substances about
them, and the impediments to their progress yielded at their touch.
Could we take integral parts of this power, and not be subject to its
operation? Could we domesticate a cub of this wild beast, and not fear
its growth and maturity?
Thus we began to feel, with regard to many-visaged death let loose on
the chosen districts of our fair habitation, and above all, with regard
to the plague. We feared the coming summer. Nations, bordering on the
already infected countries, began to enter upon serious plans for the
better keeping out of the enemy. We, a commercial people, were obliged
to bring such schemes under consideration; and the question of
contagion became matter of earnest disquisition.
That the plague was not what is commonly called contagious, like the
scarlet fever, or extinct small-pox, was proved. It was called an
epidemic. But the grand question was still unsettled of how this
epidemic was generated and increased. If infection depended upon the
air, the air was subject to infection. As for instance, a typhus fever
has been brought by ships to one sea-port town; yet the very people who
brought it there, were incapable of communicating it in a town more
fortunately situated. But how are we to judge of airs, and pronounce—in
such a city plague will die unproductive; in such another, nature has
provided for it a plentiful harvest? In the same way, individuals may
escape ninety-nine times, and receive the death-blow at the hundredth;
because bodies are sometimes in a state to reject the infection of
malady, and at others, thirsty to imbibe it. These reflections made our
legislators pause, before they could decide on the laws to be put in
force. The evil was so wide-spreading, so violent and immedicable, that
no care, no prevention could be judged superfluous, which even added a
chance to our escape.
These were questions of prudence; there was no immediate necessity for
an earnest caution. England was still secure. France, Germany, Italy
and Spain, were interposed, walls yet without a breach, between us and
the plague. Our vessels truly were the sport of winds and waves, even
as Gulliver was the toy of the Brobdignagians; but we on our stable
abode could not be hurt in life or limb by these eruptions of nature.
We could not fear—we did not. Yet a feeling of awe, a breathless
sentiment of wonder, a painful sense of the degradation of humanity,
was introduced into every heart. Nature, our mother, and our friend,
had turned on us a brow of menace. She shewed us plainly, that, though
she permitted us to assign her laws and subdue her apparent powers,
yet, if she put forth but a finger, we must quake. She could take our
globe, fringed with mountains, girded by the atmosphere, containing the
condition of our being, and all that man’s mind could invent or his
force achieve; she could take the ball in her hand, and cast it into
space, where life would be drunk up, and man and all his efforts for
ever annihilated.
These speculations were rife among us; yet not the less we proceeded in
our daily occupations, and our plans, whose accomplishment demanded the
lapse of many years. No voice was heard telling us to hold! When
foreign distresses came to be felt by us through the channels of
commerce, we set ourselves to apply remedies. Subscriptions were made
for the emigrants, and merchants bankrupt by the failure of trade. The
English spirit awoke to its full activity, and, as it had ever done,
set itself to resist the evil, and to stand in the breach which
diseased nature had suffered chaos and death to make in the bounds and
banks which had hitherto kept them out.
At the commencement of summer, we began to feel, that the mischief
which had taken place in distant countries was greater than we had at
first suspected. Quito was destroyed by an earthquake. Mexico laid
waste by the united effects of storm, pestilence and famine. Crowds of
emigrants inundated the west of Europe; and our island had become the
refuge of thousands. In the mean time Ryland had been chosen Protector.
He had sought this office with eagerness, under the idea of turning his
whole forces to the suppression of the privileged orders of our
community. His measures were thwarted, and his schemes interrupted by
this new state of things. Many of the foreigners were utterly
destitute; and their increasing numbers at length forbade a recourse to
the usual modes of relief. Trade was stopped by the failure of the
interchange of cargoes usual between us, and America, India, Egypt and
Greece. A sudden break was made in the routine of our lives. In vain
our Protector and his partizans sought to conceal this truth; in vain,
day after day, he appointed a period for the discussion of the new laws
concerning hereditary rank and privilege; in vain he endeavoured to
represent the evil as partial and temporary. These disasters came home
to so many bosoms, and, through the various channels of commerce, were
carried so entirely into every class and division of the community,
that of necessity they became the first question in the state, the
chief subjects to which we must turn our attention.
Can it be true, each asked the other with wonder and dismay, that whole
countries are laid waste, whole nations annihilated, by these disorders
in nature? The vast cities of America, the fertile plains of Hindostan,
the crowded abodes of the Chinese, are menaced with utter ruin. Where
late the busy multitudes assembled for pleasure or profit, now only the
sound of wailing and misery is heard. The air is empoisoned, and each
human being inhales death, even while in youth and health, their hopes
are in the flower. We called to mind the plague of 1348, when it was
calculated that a third of mankind had been destroyed. As yet western
Europe was uninfected; would it always be so?
O, yes, it would—Countrymen, fear not! In the still uncultivated wilds
of America, what wonder that among its other giant destroyers, plague
should be numbered! It is of old a native of the East, sister of the
tornado, the earthquake, and the simoon. Child of the sun, and nursling
of the tropics, it would expire in these climes. It drinks the dark
blood of the inhabitant of the south, but it never feasts on the
pale-faced Celt. If perchance some stricken Asiatic come among us,
plague dies with him, uncommunicated and innoxious. Let us weep for our
brethren, though we can never experience their reverse. Let us lament
over and assist the children of the garden of the earth. Late we envied
their abodes, their spicy groves, fertile plains, and abundant
loveliness. But in this mortal life extremes are always matched; the
thorn grows with the rose, the poison tree and the cinnamon mingle
their boughs. Persia, with its cloth of gold, marble halls, and
infinite wealth, is now a tomb. The tent of the Arab is fallen in the
sands, and his horse spurns the ground unbridled and unsaddled. The
voice of lamentation fills the valley of Cashmere; its dells and woods,
its cool fountains, and gardens of roses, are polluted by the dead; in
Circassia and Georgia the spirit of beauty weeps over the ruin of its
favourite temple—the form of woman.
Our own distresses, though they were occasioned by the fictitious
reciprocity of commerce, encreased in due proportion. Bankers,
merchants, and manufacturers, whose trade depended on exports and
interchange of wealth, became bankrupt. Such things, when they happen
singly, affect only the immediate parties; but the prosperity of the
nation was now shaken by frequent and extensive losses. Families, bred
in opulence and luxury, were reduced to beggary. The very state of
peace in which we gloried was injurious; there were no means of
employing the idle, or of sending any overplus of population out of the
country. Even the source of colonies was dried up, for in New Holland,
Van Diemen’s Land, and the Cape of Good Hope, plague raged. O, for some
medicinal vial to purge unwholesome nature, and bring back the earth to
its accustomed health!
Ryland was a man of strong intellects and quick and sound decision in
the usual course of things, but he stood aghast at the multitude of
evils that gathered round us. Must he tax the landed interest to assist
our commercial population? To do this, he must gain the favour of the
chief land-holders, the nobility of the country; and these were his
vowed enemies—he must conciliate them by abandoning his favourite
scheme of equalization; he must confirm them in their manorial rights;
he must sell his cherished plans for the permanent good of his country,
for temporary relief. He must aim no more at the dear object of his
ambition; throwing his arms aside, he must for present ends give up the
ultimate object of his endeavours. He came to Windsor to consult with
us. Every day added to his difficulties; the arrival of fresh vessels
with emigrants, the total cessation of commerce, the starving multitude
that thronged around the palace of the Protectorate, were circumstances
not to be tampered with. The blow was struck; the aristocracy obtained
all they wished, and they subscribed to a twelvemonths’ bill, which
levied twenty per cent on all the rent-rolls of the country. Calm was
now restored to the metropolis, and to the populous cities, before
driven to desperation; and we returned to the consideration of distant
calamities, wondering if the future would bring any alleviation to
their excess. It was August; so there could be small hope of relief
during the heats. On the contrary, the disease gained virulence, while
starvation did its accustomed work. Thousands died unlamented; for
beside the yet warm corpse the mourner was stretched, made mute by
death.
On the eighteenth of this month news arrived in London that the plague
was in France and Italy. These tidings were at first whispered about
town; but no one dared express aloud the soul-quailing intelligence.
When any one met a friend in the street, he only cried as he hurried
on, “You know!”— while the other, with an ejaculation of fear and
horror, would answer,— “What will become of us?” At length it was
mentioned in the newspapers. The paragraph was inserted in an obscure
part: “We regret to state that there can be no longer a doubt of the
plague having been introduced at Leghorn, Genoa, and Marseilles.” No
word of comment followed; each reader made his own fearful one. We were
as a man who hears that his house is burning, and yet hurries through
the streets, borne along by a lurking hope of a mistake, till he turns
the corner, and sees his sheltering roof enveloped in a flame. Before
it had been a rumour; but now in words uneraseable, in definite and
undeniable print, the knowledge went forth. Its obscurity of situation
rendered it the more conspicuous: the diminutive letters grew gigantic
to the bewildered eye of fear: they seemed graven with a pen of iron,
impressed by fire, woven in the clouds, stamped on the very front of
the universe.
The English, whether travellers or residents, came pouring in one great
revulsive stream, back on their own country; and with them crowds of
Italians and Spaniards. Our little island was filled even to bursting.
At first an unusual quantity of specie made its appearance with the
emigrants; but these people had no means of receiving back into their
hands what they spent among us. With the advance of summer, and the
increase of the distemper, rents were unpaid, and their remittances
failed them. It was impossible to see these crowds of wretched,
perishing creatures, late nurslings of luxury, and not stretch out a
hand to save them. As at the conclusion of the eighteenth century, the
English unlocked their hospitable store, for the relief of those driven
from their homes by political revolution; so now they were not backward
in affording aid to the victims of a more wide-spreading calamity. We
had many foreign friends whom we eagerly sought out, and relieved from
dreadful penury. Our Castle became an asylum for the unhappy. A little
population occupied its halls. The revenue of its possessor, which had
always found a mode of expenditure congenial to his generous nature,
was now attended to more parsimoniously, that it might embrace a wider
portion of utility. It was not however money, except partially, but the
necessaries of life, that became scarce. It was difficult to find an
immediate remedy. The usual one of imports was entirely cut off. In
this emergency, to feed the very people to whom we had given refuge, we
were obliged to yield to the plough and the mattock our
pleasure-grounds and parks. Live stock diminished sensibly in the
country, from the effects of the great demand in the market. Even the
poor deer, our antlered proteges, were obliged to fall for the sake of
worthier pensioners. The labour necessary to bring the lands to this
sort of culture, employed and fed the offcasts of the diminished
manufactories.
Adrian did not rest only with the exertions he could make with regard
to his own possessions. He addressed himself to the wealthy of the
land; he made proposals in parliament little adapted to please the
rich; but his earnest pleadings and benevolent eloquence were
irresistible. To give up their pleasure-grounds to the agriculturist,
to diminish sensibly the number of horses kept for the purposes of
luxury throughout the country, were means obvious, but unpleasing. Yet,
to the honour of the English be it recorded, that, although natural
disinclination made them delay awhile, yet when the misery of their
fellow-creatures became glaring, an enthusiastic generosity inspired
their decrees. The most luxurious were often the first to part with
their indulgencies. As is common in communities, a fashion was set. The
high-born ladies of the country would have deemed themselves disgraced
if they had now enjoyed, what they before called a necessary, the ease
of a carriage. Chairs, as in olden time, and Indian palanquins were
introduced for the infirm; but else it was nothing singular to see
females of rank going on foot to places of fashionable resort. It was
more common, for all who possessed landed property to secede to their
estates, attended by whole troops of the indigent, to cut down their
woods to erect temporary dwellings, and to portion out their parks,
parterres and flower-gardens, to necessitous families. Many of these,
of high rank in their own countries, now, with hoe in hand, turned up
the soil. It was found necessary at last to check the spirit of
sacrifice, and to remind those whose generosity proceeded to lavish
waste, that, until the present state of things became permanent, of
which there was no likelihood, it was wrong to carry change so far as
to make a reaction difficult. Experience demonstrated that in a year or
two pestilence would cease; it were well that in the mean time we
should not have destroyed our fine breeds of horses, or have utterly
changed the face of the ornamented portion of the country.
It may be imagined that things were in a bad state indeed, before this
spirit of benevolence could have struck such deep roots. The infection
had now spread in the southern provinces of France. But that country
had so many resources in the way of agriculture, that the rush of
population from one part of it to another, and its increase through
foreign emigration, was less felt than with us. The panic struck
appeared of more injury, than disease and its natural concomitants.
Winter was hailed, a general and never-failing physician. The
embrowning woods, and swollen rivers, the evening mists, and morning
frosts, were welcomed with gratitude. The effects of purifying cold
were immediately felt; and the lists of mortality abroad were curtailed
each week. Many of our visitors left us: those whose homes were far in
the south, fled delightedly from our northern winter, and sought their
native land, secure of plenty even after their fearful visitation. We
breathed again. What the coming summer would bring, we knew not; but
the present months were our own, and our hopes of a cessation of
pestilence were high.
[6]Elton’s translation of Hesiod’s Works.
CHAPTER VI.
I have lingered thus long on the extreme bank, the wasting shoal that
stretched into the stream of life, dallying with the shadow of death.
Thus long, I have cradled my heart in retrospection of past happiness,
when hope was. Why not for ever thus? I am not immortal; and the thread
of my history might be spun out to the limits of my existence. But the
same sentiment that first led me to pourtray scenes replete with tender
recollections, now bids me hurry on. The same yearning of this warm,
panting heart, that has made me in written words record my vagabond
youth, my serene manhood, and the passions of my soul, makes me now
recoil from further delay. I must complete my work.
Here then I stand, as I said, beside the fleet waters of the flowing
years, and now away! Spread the sail, and strain with oar, hurrying by
dark impending crags, adown steep rapids, even to the sea of desolation
I have reached. Yet one moment, one brief interval before I put from
shore— once, once again let me fancy myself as I was in 2094 in my
abode at Windsor, let me close my eyes, and imagine that the
immeasurable boughs of its oaks still shadow me, its castle walls
anear. Let fancy pourtray the joyous scene of the twentieth of June,
such as even now my aching heart recalls it.
Circumstances had called me to London; here I heard talk that symptoms
of the plague had occurred in hospitals of that city. I returned to
Windsor; my brow was clouded, my heart heavy; I entered the Little
Park, as was my custom, at the Frogmore gate, on my way to the Castle.
A great part of these grounds had been given to cultivation, and strips
of potatoe-land and corn were scattered here and there. The rooks cawed
loudly in the trees above; mixed with their hoarse cries I heard a
lively strain of music. It was Alfred’s birthday. The young people, the
Etonians, and children of the neighbouring gentry, held a mock fair, to
which all the country people were invited. The park was speckled by
tents, whose flaunting colours and gaudy flags, waving in the sunshine,
added to the gaiety of the scene. On a platform erected beneath the
terrace, a number of the younger part of the assembly were dancing. I
leaned against a tree to observe them. The band played the wild eastern
air of Weber introduced in Abon Hassan; its volatile notes gave wings
to the feet of the dancers, while the lookers-on unconsciously beat
time. At first the tripping measure lifted my spirit with it, and for a
moment my eyes gladly followed the mazes of the dance. The revulsion of
thought passed like keen steel to my heart. Ye are all going to die, I
thought; already your tomb is built up around you. Awhile, because you
are gifted with agility and strength, you fancy that you live: but
frail is the “bower of flesh” that encaskets life; dissoluble the
silver cord that binds you to it. The joyous soul, charioted from
pleasure to pleasure by the graceful mechanism of well-formed limbs,
will suddenly feel the axle-tree give way, and spring and wheel
dissolve in dust. Not one of you, O! fated crowd, can escape—not one!
not my own ones! not my Idris and her babes! Horror and misery! Already
the gay dance vanished, the green sward was strewn with corpses, the
blue air above became fetid with deathly exhalations. Shriek, ye
clarions! ye loud trumpets, howl! Pile dirge on dirge; rouse the
funereal chords; let the air ring with dire wailing; let wild discord
rush on the wings of the wind! Already I hear it, while guardian
angels, attendant on humanity, their task achieved, hasten away, and
their departure is announced by melancholy strains; faces all unseemly
with weeping, forced open my lids; faster and faster many groups of
these woe-begone countenances thronged around, exhibiting every variety
of wretchedness—well known faces mingled with the distorted creations
of fancy. Ashy pale, Raymond and Perdita sat apart, looking on with sad
smiles. Adrian’s countenance flitted across, tainted by death—Idris,
with eyes languidly closed and livid lips, was about to slide into the
wide grave. The confusion grew—their looks of sorrow changed to
mockery; they nodded their heads in time to the music, whose clang
became maddening.
I felt that this was insanity—I sprang forward to throw it off; I
rushed into the midst of the crowd. Idris saw me: with light step she
advanced; as I folded her in my arms, feeling, as I did, that I thus
enclosed what was to me a world, yet frail as the waterdrop which the
noon-day sun will drink from the water lily’s cup; tears filled my
eyes, unwont to be thus moistened. The joyful welcome of my boys, the
soft gratulation of Clara, the pressure of Adrian’s hand, contributed
to unman me. I felt that they were near, that they were safe, yet
methought this was all deceit;—the earth reeled, the firm-enrooted
trees moved—dizziness came over me—I sank to the ground.
My beloved friends were alarmed—nay, they expressed their alarm so
anxiously, that I dared not pronounce the word _plague_, that hovered
on my lips, lest they should construe my perturbed looks into a
symptom, and see infection in my languor. I had scarcely recovered, and
with feigned hilarity had brought back smiles into my little circle,
when we saw Ryland approach.
Ryland had something the appearance of a farmer; of a man whose muscles
and full grown stature had been developed under the influence of
vigorous exercise and exposure to the elements. This was to a great
degree the case: for, though a large landed proprietor, yet, being a
projector, and of an ardent and industrious disposition, he had on his
own estate given himself up to agricultural labours. When he went as
ambassador to the Northern States of America, he, for some time,
planned his entire migration; and went so far as to make several
journies far westward on that immense continent, for the purpose of
choosing the site of his new abode. Ambition turned his thoughts from
these designs—ambition, which labouring through various lets and
hindrances, had now led him to the summit of his hopes, in making him
Lord Protector of England.
His countenance was rough but intelligent—his ample brow and quick grey
eyes seemed to look out, over his own plans, and the opposition of his
enemies. His voice was stentorian: his hand stretched out in debate,
seemed by its gigantic and muscular form, to warn his hearers that
words were not his only weapons. Few people had discovered some
cowardice and much infirmity of purpose under this imposing exterior.
No man could crush a “butterfly on the wheel” with better effect; no
man better cover a speedy retreat from a powerful adversary. This had
been the secret of his secession at the time of Lord Raymond’s
election. In the unsteady glance of his eye, in his extreme desire to
learn the opinions of all, in the feebleness of his hand-writing, these
qualities might be obscurely traced, but they were not generally known.
He was now our Lord Protector. He had canvassed eagerly for this post.
His protectorate was to be distinguished by every kind of innovation on
the aristocracy. This his selected task was exchanged for the far
different one of encountering the ruin caused by the convulsions of
physical nature. He was incapable of meeting these evils by any
comprehensive system; he had resorted to expedient after expedient, and
could never be induced to put a remedy in force, till it came too late
to be of use.
Certainly the Ryland that advanced towards us now, bore small
resemblance to the powerful, ironical, seemingly fearless canvasser for
the first rank among Englishmen. Our native oak, as his partisans
called him, was visited truly by a nipping winter. He scarcely appeared
half his usual height; his joints were unknit, his limbs would not
support him; his face was contracted, his eye wandering; debility of
purpose and dastard fear were expressed in every gesture.
In answer to our eager questions, one word alone fell, as it were
involuntarily, from his convulsed lips: _The Plague_.—“Where?”—“Every
where—we must fly—all fly—but whither? No man can tell—there is no
refuge on earth, it comes on us like a thousand packs of wolves—we must
all fly—where shall you go? Where can any of us go?”
These words were syllabled trembling by the iron man. Adrian replied,
“Whither indeed would you fly? We must all remain; and do our best to
help our suffering fellow-creatures.”
“Help!” said Ryland, “there is no help!—great God, who talks of help!
All the world has the plague!”
“Then to avoid it, we must quit the world,” observed Adrian, with a
gentle smile.
Ryland groaned; cold drops stood on his brow. It was useless to oppose
his paroxysm of terror: but we soothed and encouraged him, so that
after an interval he was better able to explain to us the ground of his
alarm. It had come sufficiently home to him. One of his servants, while
waiting on him, had suddenly fallen down dead. The physician declared
that he died of the plague. We endeavoured to calm him—but our own
hearts were not calm. I saw the eye of Idris wander from me to her
children, with an anxious appeal to my judgment. Adrian was absorbed in
meditation. For myself, I own that Ryland’s words rang in my ears; all
the world was infected;—in what uncontaminated seclusion could I save
my beloved treasures, until the shadow of death had passed from over
the earth? We sunk into silence: a silence that drank in the doleful
accounts and prognostications of our guest. We had receded from the
crowd; and ascending the steps of the terrace, sought the Castle. Our
change of cheer struck those nearest to us; and, by means of Ryland’s
servants, the report soon spread that he had fled from the plague in
London. The sprightly parties broke up—they assembled in whispering
groups. The spirit of gaiety was eclipsed; the music ceased; the young
people left their occupations and gathered together. The lightness of
heart which had dressed them in masquerade habits, had decorated their
tents, and assembled them in fantastic groups, appeared a sin against,
and a provocative to, the awful destiny that had laid its palsying hand
upon hope and life. The merriment of the hour was an unholy mockery of
the sorrows of man. The foreigners whom we had among us, who had fled
from the plague in their own country, now saw their last asylum
invaded; and, fear making them garrulous, they described to eager
listeners the miseries they had beheld in cities visited by the
calamity, and gave fearful accounts of the insidious and irremediable
nature of the disease.
We had entered the Castle. Idris stood at a window that over-looked the
park; her maternal eyes sought her own children among the young crowd.
An Italian lad had got an audience about him, and with animated
gestures was describing some scene of horror. Alfred stood immoveable
before him, his whole attention absorbed. Little Evelyn had endeavoured
to draw Clara away to play with him; but the Italian’s tale arrested
her, she crept near, her lustrous eyes fixed on the speaker. Either
watching the crowd in the park, or occupied by painful reflection, we
were all silent; Ryland stood by himself in an embrasure of the window;
Adrian paced the hall, revolving some new and overpowering
idea—suddenly he stopped and said: “I have long expected this; could we
in reason expect that this island should be exempt from the universal
visitation? The evil is come home to us, and we must not shrink from
our fate. What are your plans, my Lord Protector, for the benefit of
our country?”
“For heaven’s love! Windsor,” cried Ryland, “do not mock me with that
title. Death and disease level all men. I neither pretend to protect
nor govern an hospital—such will England quickly become.”
“Do you then intend, now in time of peril, to recede from your duties?”
“Duties! speak rationally, my Lord!—when I am a plague-spotted corpse,
where will my duties be? Every man for himself! the devil take the
protectorship, say I, if it expose me to danger!”
“Faint-hearted man!” cried Adrian indignantly—“Your countrymen put
their trust in you, and you betray them!”
“I betray them!” said Ryland, “the plague betrays me. Faint-hearted! It
is well, shut up in your castle, out of danger, to boast yourself out
of fear. Take the Protectorship who will; before God I renounce it!”
“And before God,” replied his opponent, fervently, “do I receive it! No
one will canvass for this honour now—none envy my danger or labours.
Deposit your powers in my hands. Long have I fought with death, and
much” (he stretched out his thin hand) “much have I suffered in the
struggle. It is not by flying, but by facing the enemy, that we can
conquer. If my last combat is now about to be fought, and I am to be
worsted—so let it be!”
“But come, Ryland, recollect yourself! Men have hitherto thought you
magnanimous and wise, will you cast aside these titles? Consider the
panic your departure will occasion. Return to London. I will go with
you. Encourage the people by your presence. I will incur all the
danger. Shame! shame! if the first magistrate of England be foremost to
renounce his duties.”
Meanwhile among our guests in the park, all thoughts of festivity had
faded. As summer-flies are scattered by rain, so did this congregation,
late noisy and happy, in sadness and melancholy murmurs break up,
dwindling away apace. With the set sun and the deepening twilight the
park became nearly empty. Adrian and Ryland were still in earnest
discussion. We had prepared a banquet for our guests in the lower hall
of the castle; and thither Idris and I repaired to receive and
entertain the few that remained. There is nothing more melancholy than
a merry-meeting thus turned to sorrow: the gala dresses—the
decorations, gay as they might otherwise be, receive a solemn and
funereal appearance. If such change be painful from lighter causes, it
weighed with intolerable heaviness from the knowledge that the earth’s
desolator had at last, even as an arch-fiend, lightly over-leaped the
boundaries our precautions raised, and at once enthroned himself in the
full and beating heart of our country. Idris sat at the top of the
half-empty hall. Pale and tearful, she almost forgot her duties as
hostess; her eyes were fixed on her children. Alfred’s serious air
shewed that he still revolved the tragic story related by the Italian
boy. Evelyn was the only mirthful creature present: he sat on Clara’s
lap; and, making matter of glee from his own fancies, laughed aloud.
The vaulted roof echoed again his infant tone. The poor mother who had
brooded long over, and suppressed the expression of her anguish, now
burst into tears, and folding her babe in her arms, hurried from the
hall. Clara and Alfred followed. While the rest of the company, in
confused murmur, which grew louder and louder, gave voice to their many
fears.
The younger part gathered round me to ask my advice; and those who had
friends in London were anxious beyond the rest, to ascertain the
present extent of disease in the metropolis. I encouraged them with
such thoughts of cheer as presented themselves. I told them exceedingly
few deaths had yet been occasioned by pestilence, and gave them hopes,
as we were the last visited, so the calamity might have lost its most
venomous power before it had reached us. The cleanliness, habits of
order, and the manner in which our cities were built, were all in our
favour. As it was an epidemic, its chief force was derived from
pernicious qualities in the air, and it would probably do little harm
where this was naturally salubrious. At first, I had spoken only to
those nearest me; but the whole assembly gathered about me, and I found
that I was listened to by all. “My friends,” I said, “our risk is
common; our precautions and exertions shall be common also. If manly
courage and resistance can save us, we will be saved. We will fight the
enemy to the last. Plague shall not find us a ready prey; we will
dispute every inch of ground; and, by methodical and inflexible laws,
pile invincible barriers to the progress of our foe. Perhaps in no part
of the world has she met with so systematic and determined an
opposition. Perhaps no country is naturally so well protected against
our invader; nor has nature anywhere been so well assisted by the hand
of man. We will not despair. We are neither cowards nor fatalists; but,
believing that God has placed the means for our preservation in our own
hands, we will use those means to our utmost. Remember that
cleanliness, sobriety, and even good-humour and benevolence, are our
best medicines.”
There was little I could add to this general exhortation; for the
plague, though in London, was not among us. I dismissed the guests
therefore; and they went thoughtful, more than sad, to await the events
in store for them.
I now sought Adrian, anxious to hear the result of his discussion with
Ryland. He had in part prevailed; the Lord Protector consented to
return to London for a few weeks; during which time things should be so
arranged, as to occasion less consternation at his departure. Adrian
and Idris were together. The sadness with which the former had first
heard that the plague was in London had vanished; the energy of his
purpose informed his body with strength, the solemn joy of enthusiasm
and self-devotion illuminated his countenance; and the weakness of his
physical nature seemed to pass from him, as the cloud of humanity did,
in the ancient fable, from the divine lover of Semele. He was
endeavouring to encourage his sister, and to bring her to look on his
intent in a less tragic light than she was prepared to do; and with
passionate eloquence he unfolded his designs to her.
“Let me, at the first word,” he said, “relieve your mind from all fear
on my account. I will not task myself beyond my powers, nor will I
needlessly seek danger. I feel that I know what ought to be done, and
as my presence is necessary for the accomplishment of my plans, I will
take especial care to preserve my life.
“I am now going to undertake an office fitted for me. I cannot
intrigue, or work a tortuous path through the labyrinth of men’s vices
and passions; but I can bring patience, and sympathy, and such aid as
art affords, to the bed of disease; I can raise from earth the
miserable orphan, and awaken to new hopes the shut heart of the
mourner. I can enchain the plague in limits, and set a term to the
misery it would occasion; courage, forbearance, and watchfulness, are
the forces I bring towards this great work.
“O, I shall be something now! From my birth I have aspired like the
eagle —but, unlike the eagle, my wings have failed, and my vision has
been blinded. Disappointment and sickness have hitherto held dominion
over me; twin born with me, my _would_, was for ever enchained by the
_shall not_, of these my tyrants. A shepherd-boy that tends a silly
flock on the mountains, was more in the scale of society than I.
Congratulate me then that I have found fitting scope for my powers. I
have often thought of offering my services to the pestilence-stricken
towns of France and Italy; but fear of paining you, and expectation of
this catastrophe, withheld me. To England and to Englishmen I dedicate
myself. If I can save one of her mighty spirits from the deadly shaft;
if I can ward disease from one of her smiling cottages, I shall not
have lived in vain.”
Strange ambition this! Yet such was Adrian. He appeared given up to
contemplation, averse to excitement, a lowly student, a man of visions—
but afford him worthy theme, and—
Like to the lark at break of day arising,
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate.[7]
so did he spring up from listlessness and unproductive thought, to the
highest pitch of virtuous action.
With him went enthusiasm, the high-wrought resolve, the eye that
without blenching could look at death. With us remained sorrow,
anxiety, and unendurable expectation of evil. The man, says Lord Bacon,
who hath wife and children, has given hostages to fortune. Vain was all
philosophical reasoning—vain all fortitude—vain, vain, a reliance on
probable good. I might heap high the scale with logic, courage, and
resignation—but let one fear for Idris and our children enter the
opposite one, and, over-weighed, it kicked the beam.
The plague was in London! Fools that we were not long ago to have
foreseen this. We wept over the ruin of the boundless continents of the
east, and the desolation of the western world; while we fancied that
the little channel between our island and the rest of the earth was to
preserve us alive among the dead. It were no mighty leap methinks from
Calais to Dover. The eye easily discerns the sister land; they were
united once; and the little path that runs between looks in a map but
as a trodden footway through high grass. Yet this small interval was to
save us: the sea was to rise a wall of adamant—without, disease and
misery—within, a shelter from evil, a nook of the garden of paradise—a
particle of celestial soil, which no evil could invade—truly we were
wise in our generation, to imagine all these things!
But we are awake now. The plague is in London; the air of England is
tainted, and her sons and daughters strew the unwholesome earth. And
now, the sea, late our defence, seems our prison bound; hemmed in by
its gulphs, we shall die like the famished inhabitants of a besieged
town. Other nations have a fellowship in death; but we, shut out from
all neighbourhood, must bury our own dead, and little England become a
wide, wide tomb.
This feeling of universal misery assumed concentration and shape, when
I looked on my wife and children; and the thought of danger to them
possessed my whole being with fear. How could I save them? I revolved a
thousand and a thousand plans. They should not die—first I would be
gathered to nothingness, ere infection should come anear these idols of
my soul. I would walk barefoot through the world, to find an uninfected
spot; I would build my home on some wave-tossed plank, drifted about on
the barren, shoreless ocean. I would betake me with them to some wild
beast’s den, where a tyger’s cubs, which I would slay, had been reared
in health. I would seek the mountain eagle’s eirie, and live years
suspended in some inaccessible recess of a sea-bounding cliff—no labour
too great, no scheme too wild, if it promised life to them. O! ye
heart-strings of mine, could ye be torn asunder, and my soul not spend
itself in tears of blood for sorrow!
Idris, after the first shock, regained a portion of fortitude. She
studiously shut out all prospect of the future, and cradled her heart
in present blessings. She never for a moment lost sight of her
children. But while they in health sported about her, she could cherish
contentment and hope. A strange and wild restlessness came over me—the
more intolerable, because I was forced to conceal it. My fears for
Adrian were ceaseless; August had come; and the symptoms of plague
encreased rapidly in London. It was deserted by all who possessed the
power of removing; and he, the brother of my soul, was exposed to the
perils from which all but slaves enchained by circumstance fled. He
remained to combat the fiend—his side unguarded, his toils
unshared—infection might even reach him, and he die unattended and
alone. By day and night these thoughts pursued me. I resolved to visit
London, to see him; to quiet these agonizing throes by the sweet
medicine of hope, or the opiate of despair.
It was not until I arrived at Brentford, that I perceived much change
in the face of the country. The better sort of houses were shut up; the
busy trade of the town palsied; there was an air of anxiety among the
few passengers I met, and they looked wonderingly at my carriage—the
first they had seen pass towards London, since pestilence sat on its
high places, and possessed its busy streets. I met several funerals;
they were slenderly attended by mourners, and were regarded by the
spectators as omens of direst import. Some gazed on these processions
with wild eagerness— others fled timidly—some wept aloud.
Adrian’s chief endeavour, after the immediate succour of the sick, had
been to disguise the symptoms and progress of the plague from the
inhabitants of London. He knew that fear and melancholy forebodings
were powerful assistants to disease; that desponding and brooding care
rendered the physical nature of man peculiarly susceptible of
infection. No unseemly sights were therefore discernible: the shops
were in general open, the concourse of passengers in some degree kept
up. But although the appearance of an infected town was avoided, to me,
who had not beheld it since the commencement of the visitation, London
appeared sufficiently changed. There were no carriages, and grass had
sprung high in the streets; the houses had a desolate look; most of the
shutters were closed; and there was a ghast and frightened stare in the
persons I met, very different from the usual business-like demeanour of
the Londoners. My solitary carriage attracted notice, as it rattled
along towards the Protectoral Palace—and the fashionable streets
leading to it wore a still more dreary and deserted appearance. I found
Adrian’s anti-chamber crowded—it was his hour for giving audience. I
was unwilling to disturb his labours, and waited, watching the ingress
and egress of the petitioners. They consisted of people of the middling
and lower classes of society, whose means of subsistence failed with
the cessation of trade, and of the busy spirit of money-making in all
its branches, peculiar to our country. There was an air of anxiety,
sometimes of terror in the new-comers, strongly contrasted with the
resigned and even satisfied mien of those who had had audience. I could
read the influence of my friend in their quickened motions and cheerful
faces. Two o’clock struck, after which none were admitted; those who
had been disappointed went sullenly or sorrowfully away, while I
entered the audience-chamber.
I was struck by the improvement that appeared in the health of Adrian.
He was no longer bent to the ground, like an over-nursed flower of
spring, that, shooting up beyond its strength, is weighed down even by
its own coronal of blossoms. His eyes were bright, his countenance
composed, an air of concentrated energy was diffused over his whole
person, much unlike its former languor. He sat at a table with several
secretaries, who were arranging petitions, or registering the notes
made during that day’s audience. Two or three petitioners were still in
attendance. I admired his justice and patience. Those who possessed a
power of living out of London, he advised immediately to quit it,
affording them the means of so doing. Others, whose trade was
beneficial to the city, or who possessed no other refuge, he provided
with advice for better avoiding the epidemic; relieving overloaded
families, supplying the gaps made in others by death. Order, comfort,
and even health, rose under his influence, as from the touch of a
magician’s wand.
“I am glad you are come,” he said to me, when we were at last alone; “I
can only spare a few minutes, and must tell you much in that time. The
plague is now in progress—it is useless closing one’s eyes to the
fact—the deaths encrease each week. What will come I cannot guess. As
yet, thank God, I am equal to the government of the town; and I look
only to the present. Ryland, whom I have so long detained, has
stipulated that I shall suffer him to depart before the end of this
month. The deputy appointed by parliament is dead; another therefore
must be named; I have advanced my claim, and I believe that I shall
have no competitor. To-night the question is to be decided, as there is
a call of the house for the purpose. You must nominate me, Lionel;
Ryland, for shame, cannot shew himself; but you, my friend, will do me
this service?”
How lovely is devotion! Here was a youth, royally sprung, bred in
luxury, by nature averse to the usual struggles of a public life, and
now, in time of danger, at a period when to live was the utmost scope
of the ambitious, he, the beloved and heroic Adrian, made, in sweet
simplicity, an offer to sacrifice himself for the public good. The very
idea was generous and noble,—but, beyond this, his unpretending manner,
his entire want of the assumption of a virtue, rendered his act ten
times more touching. I would have withstood his request; but I had seen
the good he diffused; I felt that his resolves were not to be shaken,
so, with an heavy heart, I consented to do as he asked. He grasped my
hand affectionately:—“Thank you,” he said, “you have relieved me from a
painful dilemma, and are, as you ever were, the best of my friends.
Farewell—I must now leave you for a few hours. Go you and converse with
Ryland. Although he deserts his post in London, he may be of the
greatest service in the north of England, by receiving and assisting
travellers, and contributing to supply the metropolis with food. Awaken
him, I entreat you, to some sense of duty.”
Adrian left me, as I afterwards learnt, upon his daily task of visiting
the hospitals, and inspecting the crowded parts of London. I found
Ryland much altered, even from what he had been when he visited
Windsor. Perpetual fear had jaundiced his complexion, and shrivelled
his whole person. I told him of the business of the evening, and a
smile relaxed the contracted muscles. He desired to go; each day he
expected to be infected by pestilence, each day he was unable to resist
the gentle violence of Adrian’s detention. The moment Adrian should be
legally elected his deputy, he would escape to safety. Under this
impression he listened to all I said; and, elevated almost to joy by
the near prospect of his departure, he entered into a discussion
concerning the plans he should adopt in his own county, forgetting, for
the moment, his cherished resolution of shutting himself up from all
communication in the mansion and grounds of his estate.
In the evening, Adrian and I proceeded to Westminster. As we went he
reminded me of what I was to say and do, yet, strange to say, I entered
the chamber without having once reflected on my purpose. Adrian
remained in the coffee-room, while I, in compliance with his desire,
took my seat in St. Stephen’s. There reigned unusual silence in the
chamber. I had not visited it since Raymond’s protectorate; a period
conspicuous for a numerous attendance of members, for the eloquence of
the speakers, and the warmth of the debate. The benches were very
empty, those by custom occupied by the hereditary members were vacant;
the city members were there—the members for the commercial towns, few
landed proprietors, and not many of those who entered parliament for
the sake of a career. The first subject that occupied the attention of
the house was an address from the Lord Protector, praying them to
appoint a deputy during a necessary absence on his part.
A silence prevailed, till one of the members coming to me, whispered
that the Earl of Windsor had sent him word that I was to move his
election, in the absence of the person who had been first chosen for
this office. Now for the first time I saw the full extent of my task,
and I was overwhelmed by what I had brought on myself. Ryland had
deserted his post through fear of the plague: from the same fear Adrian
had no competitor. And I, the nearest kinsman of the Earl of Windsor,
was to propose his election. I was to thrust this selected and
matchless friend into the post of danger— impossible! the die was
cast—I would offer myself as candidate.
The few members who were present, had come more for the sake of
terminating the business by securing a legal attendance, than under the
idea of a debate. I had risen mechanically—my knees trembled;
irresolution hung on my voice, as I uttered a few words on the
necessity of choosing a person adequate to the dangerous task in hand.
But, when the idea of presenting myself in the room of my friend
intruded, the load of doubt and pain was taken from off me. My words
flowed spontaneously—my utterance was firm and quick. I adverted to
what Adrian had already done—I promised the same vigilance in
furthering all his views. I drew a touching picture of his vacillating
health; I boasted of my own strength. I prayed them to save even from
himself this scion of the noblest family in England. My alliance with
him was the pledge of my sincerity, my union with his sister, my
children, his presumptive heirs, were the hostages of my truth.
This unexpected turn in the debate was quickly communicated to Adrian.
He hurried in, and witnessed the termination of my impassioned
harangue. I did not see him: my soul was in my words,—my eyes could not
perceive that which was; while a vision of Adrian’s form, tainted by
pestilence, and sinking in death, floated before them. He seized my
hand, as I concluded— “Unkind!” he cried, “you have betrayed me!” then,
springing forwards, with the air of one who had a right to command, he
claimed the place of deputy as his own. He had bought it, he said, with
danger, and paid for it with toil. His ambition rested there; and,
after an interval devoted to the interests of his country, was I to
step in, and reap the profit? Let them remember what London had been
when he arrived: the panic that prevailed brought famine, while every
moral and legal tie was loosened. He had restored order—this had been a
work which required perseverance, patience, and energy; and he had
neither slept nor waked but for the good of his country.—Would they
dare wrong him thus? Would they wrest his hard-earned reward from him,
to bestow it on one, who, never having mingled in public life, would
come a tyro to the craft, in which he was an adept. He demanded the
place of deputy as his right. Ryland had shewn that he preferred him.
Never before had he, who was born even to the inheritance of the throne
of England, never had he asked favour or honour from those now his
equals, but who might have been his subjects. Would they refuse him?
Could they thrust back from the path of distinction and laudable
ambition, the heir of their ancient kings, and heap another
disappointment on a fallen house.
No one had ever before heard Adrian allude to the rights of his
ancestors. None had ever before suspected, that power, or the suffrage
of the many, could in any manner become dear to him. He had begun his
speech with vehemence; he ended with unassuming gentleness, making his
appeal with the same humility, as if he had asked to be the first in
wealth, honour, and power among Englishmen, and not, as was the truth,
to be the foremost in the ranks of loathsome toils and inevitable
death. A murmur of approbation rose after his speech. “Oh, do not
listen to him,” I cried, “he speaks false—false to himself,”—I was
interrupted: and, silence being restored, we were ordered, as was the
custom, to retire during the decision of the house. I fancied that they
hesitated, and that there was some hope for me—I was mistaken—hardly
had we quitted the chamber, before Adrian was recalled, and installed
in his office of Lord Deputy to the Protector.
We returned together to the palace. “Why, Lionel,” said Adrian, “what
did you intend? you could not hope to conquer, and yet you gave me the
pain of a triumph over my dearest friend.”
“This is mockery,” I replied, “you devote yourself,—you, the adored
brother of Idris, the being, of all the world contains, dearest to our
hearts—you devote yourself to an early death. I would have prevented
this; my death would be a small evil—or rather I should not die; while
you cannot hope to escape.”
“As to the likelihood of escaping,” said Adrian, “ten years hence the
cold stars may shine on the graves of all of us; but as to my peculiar
liability to infection, I could easily prove, both logically and
physically, that in the midst of contagion I have a better chance of
life than you.
“This is my post: I was born for this—to rule England in anarchy, to
save her in danger—to devote myself for her. The blood of my
forefathers cries aloud in my veins, and bids me be first among my
countrymen. Or, if this mode of speech offend you, let me say, that my
mother, the proud queen, instilled early into me a love of distinction,
and all that, if the weakness of my physical nature and my peculiar
opinions had not prevented such a design, might have made me long since
struggle for the lost inheritance of my race. But now my mother, or, if
you will, my mother’s lessons, awaken within me. I cannot lead on to
battle; I cannot, through intrigue and faithlessness rear again the
throne upon the wreck of English public spirit. But I can be the first
to support and guard my country, now that terrific disasters and ruin
have laid strong hands upon her.
“That country and my beloved sister are all I have. I will protect the
first—the latter I commit to your charge. If I survive, and she be
lost, I were far better dead. Preserve her—for her own sake I know that
you will—if you require any other spur, think that, in preserving her,
you preserve me. Her faultless nature, one sum of perfections, is wrapt
up in her affections—if they were hurt, she would droop like an
unwatered floweret, and the slightest injury they receive is a nipping
frost to her. Already she fears for us. She fears for the children she
adores, and for you, the father of these, her lover, husband,
protector; and you must be near her to support and encourage her.
Return to Windsor then, my brother; for such you are by every tie—fill
the double place my absence imposes on you, and let me, in all my
sufferings here, turn my eyes towards that dear seclusion, and
say—There is peace.”
[7] Shakespeare’s Sonnets.
CHAPTER VII.
I did proceed to Windsor, but not with the intention of remaining
there. I went but to obtain the consent of Idris, and then to return
and take my station beside my unequalled friend; to share his labours,
and save him, if so it must be, at the expence of my life. Yet I
dreaded to witness the anguish which my resolve might excite in Idris.
I had vowed to my own heart never to shadow her countenance even with
transient grief, and should I prove recreant at the hour of greatest
need? I had begun my journey with anxious haste; now I desired to draw
it out through the course of days and months. I longed to avoid the
necessity of action; I strove to escape from thought—vainly—futurity,
like a dark image in a phantasmagoria, came nearer and more near, till
it clasped the whole earth in its shadow.
A slight circumstance induced me to alter my usual route, and to return
home by Egham and Bishopgate. I alighted at Perdita’s ancient abode,
her cottage; and, sending forward the carriage, determined to walk
across the park to the castle. This spot, dedicated to sweetest
recollections, the deserted house and neglected garden were well
adapted to nurse my melancholy. In our happiest days, Perdita had
adorned her cottage with every aid art might bring, to that which
nature had selected to favour. In the same spirit of exaggeration she
had, on the event of her separation from Raymond, caused it to be
entirely neglected. It was now in ruin: the deer had climbed the broken
palings, and reposed among the flowers; grass grew on the threshold,
and the swinging lattice creaking to the wind, gave signal of utter
desertion. The sky was blue above, and the air impregnated with
fragrance by the rare flowers that grew among the weeds. The trees
moved overhead, awakening nature’s favourite melody—but the melancholy
appearance of the choaked paths, and weed-grown flower-beds, dimmed
even this gay summer scene. The time when in proud and happy security
we assembled at this cottage, was gone—soon the present hours would
join those past, and shadows of future ones rose dark and menacing from
the womb of time, their cradle and their bier. For the first time in my
life I envied the sleep of the dead, and thought with pleasure of one’s
bed under the sod, where grief and fear have no power. I passed through
the gap of the broken paling—I felt, while I disdained, the choaking
tears—I rushed into the depths of the forest. O death and change,
rulers of our life, where are ye, that I may grapple with you! What was
there in our tranquillity, that excited your envy—in our happiness,
that ye should destroy it? We were happy, loving, and beloved; the horn
of Amalthea contained no blessing unshowered upon us, but, alas!
la fortuna
deidad barbara importuna,
oy cadaver y ayer flor,
no permanece jamas![8]
As I wandered on thus ruminating, a number of country people passed me.
They seemed full of careful thought, and a few words of their
conversation that reached me, induced me to approach and make further
enquiries. A party of people flying from London, as was frequent in
those days, had come up the Thames in a boat. No one at Windsor would
afford them shelter; so, going a little further up, they remained all
night in a deserted hut near Bolter’s lock. They pursued their way the
following morning, leaving one of their company behind them, sick of
the plague. This circumstance once spread abroad, none dared approach
within half a mile of the infected neighbourhood, and the deserted
wretch was left to fight with disease and death in solitude, as he best
might. I was urged by compassion to hasten to the hut, for the purpose
of ascertaining his situation, and administering to his wants.
As I advanced I met knots of country-people talking earnestly of this
event: distant as they were from the apprehended contagion, fear was
impressed on every countenance. I passed by a group of these
terrorists, in a lane in the direct road to the hut. One of them
stopped me, and, conjecturing that I was ignorant of the circumstance,
told me not to go on, for that an infected person lay but at a short
distance.
“I know it,” I replied, “and I am going to see in what condition the
poor fellow is.”
A murmur of surprise and horror ran through the assembly. I
continued:—“This poor wretch is deserted, dying, succourless; in these
unhappy times, God knows how soon any or all of us may be in like want.
I am going to do, as I would be done by.”
“But you will never be able to return to the Castle—Lady Idris—his
children—” in confused speech were the words that struck my ear.
“Do you not know, my friends,” I said, “that the Earl himself, now Lord
Protector, visits daily, not only those probably infected by this
disease, but the hospitals and pest houses, going near, and even
touching the sick? yet he was never in better health. You labour under
an entire mistake as to the nature of the plague; but do not fear, I do
not ask any of you to accompany me, nor to believe me, until I return
safe and sound from my patient.”
So I left them, and hurried on. I soon arrived at the hut: the door was
ajar. I entered, and one glance assured me that its former inhabitant
was no more—he lay on a heap of straw, cold and stiff; while a
pernicious effluvia filled the room, and various stains and marks
served to shew the virulence of the disorder.
I had never before beheld one killed by pestilence. While every mind
was full of dismay at its effects, a craving for excitement had led us
to peruse De Foe’s account, and the masterly delineations of the author
of Arthur Mervyn. The pictures drawn in these books were so vivid, that
we seemed to have experienced the results depicted by them. But cold
were the sensations excited by words, burning though they were, and
describing the death and misery of thousands, compared to what I felt
in looking on the corpse of this unhappy stranger. This indeed was the
plague. I raised his rigid limbs, I marked the distortion of his face,
and the stony eyes lost to perception. As I was thus occupied, chill
horror congealed my blood, making my flesh quiver and my hair to stand
on end. Half insanely I spoke to the dead. So the plague killed you, I
muttered. How came this? Was the coming painful? You look as if the
enemy had tortured, before he murdered you. And now I leapt up
precipitately, and escaped from the hut, before nature could revoke her
laws, and inorganic words be breathed in answer from the lips of the
departed.
On returning through the lane, I saw at a distance the same assemblage
of persons which I had left. They hurried away, as soon as they saw me;
my agitated mien added to their fear of coming near one who had entered
within the verge of contagion.
At a distance from facts one draws conclusions which appear infallible,
which yet when put to the test of reality, vanish like unreal dreams. I
had ridiculed the fears of my countrymen, when they related to others;
now that they came home to myself, I paused. The Rubicon, I felt, was
passed; and it behoved me well to reflect what I should do on this
hither side of disease and danger. According to the vulgar
superstition, my dress, my person, the air I breathed, bore in it
mortal danger to myself and others. Should I return to the Castle, to
my wife and children, with this taint upon me? Not surely if I were
infected; but I felt certain that I was not—a few hours would determine
the question—I would spend these in the forest, in reflection on what
was to come, and what my future actions were to be. In the feeling
communicated to me by the sight of one struck by the plague, I forgot
the events that had excited me so strongly in London; new and more
painful prospects, by degrees were cleared of the mist which had
hitherto veiled them. The question was no longer whether I should share
Adrian’s toils and danger; but in what manner I could, in Windsor and
the neighbourhood, imitate the prudence and zeal which, under his
government, produced order and plenty in London, and how, now
pestilence had spread more widely, I could secure the health of my own
family.
I spread the whole earth out as a map before me. On no one spot of its
surface could I put my finger and say, here is safety. In the south,
the disease, virulent and immedicable, had nearly annihilated the race
of man; storm and inundation, poisonous winds and blights, filled up
the measure of suffering. In the north it was worse—the lesser
population gradually declined, and famine and plague kept watch on the
survivors, who, helpless and feeble, were ready to fall an easy prey
into their hands.
I contracted my view to England. The overgrown metropolis, the great
heart of mighty Britain, was pulseless. Commerce had ceased. All resort
for ambition or pleasure was cut off—the streets were grass-grown—the
houses empty—the few, that from necessity remained, seemed already
branded with the taint of inevitable pestilence. In the larger
manufacturing towns the same tragedy was acted on a smaller, yet more
disastrous scale. There was no Adrian to superintend and direct, while
whole flocks of the poor were struck and killed. Yet we were not all to
die. No truly, though thinned, the race of man would continue, and the
great plague would, in after years, become matter of history and
wonder. Doubtless this visitation was for extent unexampled—more need
that we should work hard to dispute its progress; ere this men have
gone out in sport, and slain their thousands and tens of thousands; but
now man had become a creature of price; the life of one of them was of
more worth than the so called treasures of kings. Look at his
thought-endued countenance, his graceful limbs, his majestic brow, his
wondrous mechanism—the type and model of this best work of God is not
to be cast aside as a broken vessel—he shall be preserved, and his
children and his children’s children carry down the name and form of
man to latest time.
Above all I must guard those entrusted by nature and fate to my
especial care. And surely, if among all my fellow-creatures I were to
select those who might stand forth examples of the greatness and
goodness of man, I could choose no other than those allied to me by the
most sacred ties. Some from among the family of man must survive, and
these should be among the survivors; that should be my task—to
accomplish it my own life were a small sacrifice. There then in that
castle—in Windsor Castle, birth-place of Idris and my babes, should be
the haven and retreat for the wrecked bark of human society. Its forest
should be our world—its garden afford us food; within its walls I would
establish the shaken throne of health. I was an outcast and a vagabond,
when Adrian gently threw over me the silver net of love and
civilization, and linked me inextricably to human charities and human
excellence. I was one, who, though an aspirant after good, and an
ardent lover of wisdom, was yet unenrolled in any list of worth, when
Idris, the princely born, who was herself the personification of all
that was divine in woman, she who walked the earth like a poet’s dream,
as a carved goddess endued with sense, or pictured saint stepping from
the canvas—she, the most worthy, chose me, and gave me herself—a
priceless gift.
During several hours I continued thus to meditate, till hunger and
fatigue brought me back to the passing hour, then marked by long
shadows cast from the descending sun. I had wandered towards Bracknel,
far to the west of Windsor. The feeling of perfect health which I
enjoyed, assured me that I was free from contagion. I remembered that
Idris had been kept in ignorance of my proceedings. She might have
heard of my return from London, and my visit to Bolter’s Lock, which,
connected with my continued absence, might tend greatly to alarm her. I
returned to Windsor by the Long Walk, and passing through the town
towards the Castle, I found it in a state of agitation and disturbance.
“It is too late to be ambitious,” says Sir Thomas Browne. “We cannot
hope to live so long in our names as some have done in their persons;
one face of Janus holds no proportion to the other.” Upon this text
many fanatics arose, who prophesied that the end of time was come. The
spirit of superstition had birth, from the wreck of our hopes, and
antics wild and dangerous were played on the great theatre, while the
remaining particle of futurity dwindled into a point in the eyes of the
prognosticators. Weak-spirited women died of fear as they listened to
their denunciations; men of robust form and seeming strength fell into
idiotcy and madness, racked by the dread of coming eternity. A man of
this kind was now pouring forth his eloquent despair among the
inhabitants of Windsor. The scene of the morning, and my visit to the
dead, which had been spread abroad, had alarmed the country-people, so
they had become fit instruments to be played upon by a maniac.
The poor wretch had lost his young wife and lovely infant by the
plague. He was a mechanic; and, rendered unable to attend to the
occupation which supplied his necessities, famine was added to his
other miseries. He left the chamber which contained his wife and
child—wife and child no more, but “dead earth upon the earth”—wild with
hunger, watching and grief, his diseased fancy made him believe himself
sent by heaven to preach the end of time to the world. He entered the
churches, and foretold to the congregations their speedy removal to the
vaults below. He appeared like the forgotten spirit of the time in the
theatres, and bade the spectators go home and die. He had been seized
and confined; he had escaped and wandered from London among the
neighbouring towns, and, with frantic gestures and thrilling words, he
unveiled to each their hidden fears, and gave voice to the soundless
thought they dared not syllable. He stood under the arcade of the
town-hall of Windsor, and from this elevation harangued a trembling
crowd.
“Hear, O ye inhabitants of the earth,” he cried, “hear thou, all
seeing, but most pitiless Heaven! hear thou too, O tempest-tossed
heart, which breathes out these words, yet faints beneath their
meaning! Death is among us! The earth is beautiful and flower-bedecked,
but she is our grave! The clouds of heaven weep for us—the pageantry of
the stars is but our funeral torchlight. Grey headed men, ye hoped for
yet a few years in your long-known abode—but the lease is up, you must
remove—children, ye will never reach maturity, even now the small grave
is dug for ye— mothers, clasp them in your arms, one death embraces
you!”
Shuddering, he stretched out his hands, his eyes cast up, seemed
bursting from their sockets, while he appeared to follow shapes, to us
invisible, in the yielding air—“There they are,” he cried, “the dead!
They rise in their shrouds, and pass in silent procession towards the
far land of their doom—their bloodless lips move not—their shadowy
limbs are void of motion, while still they glide onwards. We come,” he
exclaimed, springing forwards, “for what should we wait? Haste, my
friends, apparel yourselves in the court-dress of death. Pestilence
will usher you to his presence. Why thus long? they, the good, the
wise, and the beloved, are gone before. Mothers, kiss you
last—husbands, protectors no more, lead on the partners of your death!
Come, O come! while the dear ones are yet in sight, for soon they will
pass away, and we never never shall join them more.”
From such ravings as these, he would suddenly become collected, and
with unexaggerated but terrific words, paint the horrors of the time;
describe with minute detail, the effects of the plague on the human
frame, and tell heart-breaking tales of the snapping of dear
affinities—the gasping horror of despair over the death-bed of the last
beloved—so that groans and even shrieks burst from the crowd. One man
in particular stood in front, his eyes fixt on the prophet, his mouth
open, his limbs rigid, while his face changed to various colours,
yellow, blue, and green, through intense fear. The maniac caught his
glance, and turned his eye on him— one has heard of the gaze of the
rattle-snake, which allures the trembling victim till he falls within
his jaws. The maniac became composed; his person rose higher; authority
beamed from his countenance. He looked on the peasant, who began to
tremble, while he still gazed; his knees knocked together; his teeth
chattered. He at last fell down in convulsions. “That man has the
plague,” said the maniac calmly. A shriek burst from the lips of the
poor wretch; and then sudden motionlessness came over him; it was
manifest to all that he was dead.
Cries of horror filled the place—every one endeavoured to effect his
escape—in a few minutes the market place was cleared—the corpse lay on
the ground; and the maniac, subdued and exhausted, sat beside it,
leaning his gaunt cheek upon his thin hand. Soon some people, deputed
by the magistrates, came to remove the body; the unfortunate being saw
a jailor in each—he fled precipitately, while I passed onwards to the
Castle.
Death, cruel and relentless, had entered these beloved walls. An old
servant, who had nursed Idris in infancy, and who lived with us more on
the footing of a revered relative than a domestic, had gone a few days
before to visit a daughter, married, and settled in the neighbourhood
of London. On the night of her return she sickened of the plague. From
the haughty and unbending nature of the Countess of Windsor, Idris had
few tender filial associations with her. This good woman had stood in
the place of a mother, and her very deficiencies of education and
knowledge, by rendering her humble and defenceless, endeared her to
us—she was the especial favourite of the children. I found my poor
girl, there is no exaggeration in the expression, wild with grief and
dread. She hung over the patient in agony, which was not mitigated when
her thoughts wandered towards her babes, for whom she feared infection.
My arrival was like the newly discovered lamp of a lighthouse to
sailors, who are weathering some dangerous point. She deposited her
appalling doubts in my hands; she relied on my judgment, and was
comforted by my participation in her sorrow. Soon our poor nurse
expired; and the anguish of suspense was changed to deep regret, which
though at first more painful, yet yielded with greater readiness to my
consolations. Sleep, the sovereign balm, at length steeped her tearful
eyes in forgetfulness.
She slept; and quiet prevailed in the Castle, whose inhabitants were
hushed to repose. I was awake, and during the long hours of dead night,
my busy thoughts worked in my brain, like ten thousand mill-wheels,
rapid, acute, untameable. All slept—all England slept; and from my
window, commanding a wide prospect of the star-illumined country, I saw
the land stretched out in placid rest. I was awake, alive, while the
brother of death possessed my race. What, if the more potent of these
fraternal deities should obtain dominion over it? The silence of
midnight, to speak truly, though apparently a paradox, rung in my ears.
The solitude became intolerable—I placed my hand on the beating heart
of Idris, I bent my head to catch the sound of her breath, to assure
myself that she still existed—for a moment I doubted whether I should
not awake her; so effeminate an horror ran through my frame.—Great God!
would it one day be thus? One day all extinct, save myself, should I
walk the earth alone? Were these warning voices, whose inarticulate and
oracular sense forced belief upon me?
Yet I would not call _them_
Voices of warning, that announce to us
Only the inevitable. As the sun,
Ere it is risen, sometimes paints its image
In the atmosphere—so often do the spirits
Of great events stride on before the events,
And in to-day already walks to-morrow.[9]
[8] Calderon de la Barca.
[9] Coleridge’s Translation of Schiller’s Wallenstein.
CHAPTER VIII.
After a long interval, I am again impelled by the restless spirit
within me to continue my narration; but I must alter the mode which I
have hitherto adopted. The details contained in the foregoing pages,
apparently trivial, yet each slightest one weighing like lead in the
depressed scale of human afflictions; this tedious dwelling on the
sorrows of others, while my own were only in apprehension; this slowly
laying bare of my soul’s wounds: this journal of death; this long drawn
and tortuous path, leading to the ocean of countless tears, awakens me
again to keen grief. I had used this history as an opiate; while it
described my beloved friends, fresh with life and glowing with hope,
active assistants on the scene, I was soothed; there will be a more
melancholy pleasure in painting the end of all. But the intermediate
steps, the climbing the wall, raised up between what was and is, while
I still looked back nor saw the concealed desert beyond, is a labour
past my strength. Time and experience have placed me on an height from
which I can comprehend the past as a whole; and in this way I must
describe it, bringing forward the leading incidents, and disposing
light and shade so as to form a picture in whose very darkness there
will be harmony.
It would be needless to narrate those disastrous occurrences, for which
a parallel might be found in any slighter visitation of our gigantic
calamity. Does the reader wish to hear of the pest-houses, where death
is the comforter—of the mournful passage of the death-cart—of the
insensibility of the worthless, and the anguish of the loving heart—of
harrowing shrieks and silence dire—of the variety of disease,
desertion, famine, despair, and death? There are many books which can
feed the appetite craving for these things; let them turn to the
accounts of Boccaccio, De Foe, and Browne. The vast annihilation that
has swallowed all things—the voiceless solitude of the once busy
earth—the lonely state of singleness which hems me in, has deprived
even such details of their stinging reality, and mellowing the lurid
tints of past anguish with poetic hues, I am able to escape from the
mosaic of circumstance, by perceiving and reflecting back the grouping
and combined colouring of the past.
I had returned from London possessed by the idea, with the intimate
feeling that it was my first duty to secure, as well as I was able, the
well-being of my family, and then to return and take my post beside
Adrian. The events that immediately followed on my arrival at Windsor
changed this view of things. The plague was not in London alone, it was
every where—it came on us, as Ryland had said, like a thousand packs of
wolves, howling through the winter night, gaunt and fierce. When once
disease was introduced into the rural districts, its effects appeared
more horrible, more exigent, and more difficult to cure, than in towns.
There was a companionship in suffering there, and, the neighbours
keeping constant watch on each other, and inspired by the active
benevolence of Adrian, succour was afforded, and the path of
destruction smoothed. But in the country, among the scattered
farm-houses, in lone cottages, in fields, and barns, tragedies were
acted harrowing to the soul, unseen, unheard, unnoticed. Medical aid
was less easily procured, food was more difficult to obtain, and human
beings, unwithheld by shame, for they were unbeheld of their fellows,
ventured on deeds of greater wickedness, or gave way more readily to
their abject fears.
Deeds of heroism also occurred, whose very mention swells the heart and
brings tears into the eyes. Such is human nature, that beauty and
deformity are often closely linked. In reading history we are chiefly
struck by the generosity and self-devotion that follow close on the
heels of crime, veiling with supernal flowers the stain of blood. Such
acts were not wanting to adorn the grim train that waited on the
progress of the plague.
The inhabitants of Berkshire and Bucks had been long aware that the
plague was in London, in Liverpool, Bristol, Manchester, York, in
short, in all the more populous towns of England. They were not however
the less astonished and dismayed when it appeared among themselves.
They were impatient and angry in the midst of terror. They would do
something to throw off the clinging evil, and, while in action, they
fancied that a remedy was applied. The inhabitants of the smaller towns
left their houses, pitched tents in the fields, wandering separate from
each other careless of hunger or the sky’s inclemency, while they
imagined that they avoided the death-dealing disease. The farmers and
cottagers, on the contrary, struck with the fear of solitude, and madly
desirous of medical assistance, flocked into the towns.
But winter was coming, and with winter, hope. In August, the plague had
appeared in the country of England, and during September it made its
ravages. Towards the end of October it dwindled away, and was in some
degree replaced by a typhus, of hardly less virulence. The autumn was
warm and rainy: the infirm and sickly died off—happier they: many young
people flushed with health and prosperity, made pale by wasting malady,
became the inhabitants of the grave. The crop had failed, the bad corn,
and want of foreign wines, added vigour to disease. Before Christmas
half England was under water. The storms of the last winter were
renewed; but the diminished shipping of this year caused us to feel
less the tempests of the sea. The flood and storms did more harm to
continental Europe than to us—giving, as it were, the last blow to the
calamities which destroyed it. In Italy the rivers were unwatched by
the diminished peasantry; and, like wild beasts from their lair when
the hunters and dogs are afar, did Tiber, Arno, and Po, rush upon and
destroy the fertility of the plains. Whole villages were carried away.
Rome, and Florence, and Pisa were overflowed, and their marble palaces,
late mirrored in tranquil streams, had their foundations shaken by
their winter-gifted power. In Germany and Russia the injury was still
more momentous.
But frost would come at last, and with it a renewal of our lease of
earth. Frost would blunt the arrows of pestilence, and enchain the
furious elements; and the land would in spring throw off her garment of
snow, released from her menace of destruction. It was not until
February that the desired signs of winter appeared. For three days the
snow fell, ice stopped the current of the rivers, and the birds flew
out from crackling branches of the frost-whitened trees. On the fourth
morning all vanished. A south-west wind brought up rain—the sun came
out, and mocking the usual laws of nature, seemed even at this early
season to burn with solsticial force. It was no consolation, that with
the first winds of March the lanes were filled with violets, the fruit
trees covered with blossoms, that the corn sprung up, and the leaves
came out, forced by the unseasonable heat. We feared the balmy air—we
feared the cloudless sky, the flower-covered earth, and delightful
woods, for we looked on the fabric of the universe no longer as our
dwelling, but our tomb, and the fragrant land smelled to the
apprehension of fear like a wide church-yard.
Pisando la tierra dura
de continuo el hombre està
y cada passo que dà
es sobre su sepultura.[10]
Yet notwithstanding these disadvantages winter was breathing time; and
we exerted ourselves to make the best of it. Plague might not revive
with the summer; but if it did, it should find us prepared. It is a
part of man’s nature to adapt itself through habit even to pain and
sorrow. Pestilence had become a part of our future, our existence; it
was to be guarded against, like the flooding of rivers, the
encroachments of ocean, or the inclemency of the sky. After long
suffering and bitter experience, some panacea might be discovered; as
it was, all that received infection died— all however were not
infected; and it became our part to fix deep the foundations, and raise
high the barrier between contagion and the sane; to introduce such
order as would conduce to the well-being of the survivors, and as would
preserve hope and some portion of happiness to those who were
spectators of the still renewed tragedy. Adrian had introduced
systematic modes of proceeding in the metropolis, which, while they
were unable to stop the progress of death, yet prevented other evils,
vice and folly, from rendering the awful fate of the hour still more
tremendous. I wished to imitate his example, but men are used to
—move all together, if they move at all,[11]
and I could find no means of leading the inhabitants of scattered towns
and villages, who forgot my words as soon as they heard them not, and
veered with every baffling wind, that might arise from an apparent
change of circumstance.
I adopted another plan. Those writers who have imagined a reign of
peace and happiness on earth, have generally described a rural country,
where each small township was directed by the elders and wise men. This
was the key of my design. Each village, however small, usually contains
a leader, one among themselves whom they venerate, whose advice they
seek in difficulty, and whose good opinion they chiefly value. I was
immediately drawn to make this observation by occurrences that
presented themselves to my personal experience.
In the village of Little Marlow an old woman ruled the community. She
had lived for some years in an alms-house, and on fine Sundays her
threshold was constantly beset by a crowd, seeking her advice and
listening to her admonitions. She had been a soldier’s wife, and had
seen the world; infirmity, induced by fevers caught in unwholesome
quarters, had come on her before its time, and she seldom moved from
her little cot. The plague entered the village; and, while fright and
grief deprived the inhabitants of the little wisdom they possessed, old
Martha stepped forward and said— “Before now I have been in a town
where there was the plague.”—“And you escaped?”—“No, but I
recovered.”—After this Martha was seated more firmly than ever on the
regal seat, elevated by reverence and love. She entered the cottages of
the sick; she relieved their wants with her own hand; she betrayed no
fear, and inspired all who saw her with some portion of her own native
courage. She attended the markets—she insisted upon being supplied with
food for those who were too poor to purchase it. She shewed them how
the well-being of each included the prosperity of all. She would not
permit the gardens to be neglected, nor the very flowers in the cottage
lattices to droop from want of care. Hope, she said, was better than a
doctor’s prescription, and every thing that could sustain and enliven
the spirits, of more worth than drugs and mixtures.
It was the sight of Little Marlow, and my conversations with Martha,
that led me to the plan I formed. I had before visited the manor houses
and gentlemen’s seats, and often found the inhabitants actuated by the
purest benevolence, ready to lend their utmost aid for the welfare of
their tenants. But this was not enough. The intimate sympathy generated
by similar hopes and fears, similar experience and pursuits, was
wanting here. The poor perceived that the rich possessed other means of
preservation than those which could be partaken of by themselves,
seclusion, and, as far as circumstances permitted, freedom from care.
They could not place reliance on them, but turned with tenfold
dependence to the succour and advice of their equals. I resolved
therefore to go from village to village, seeking out the rustic archon
of the place, and by systematizing their exertions, and enlightening
their views, encrease both their power and their use among their
fellow-cottagers. Many changes also now occurred in these spontaneous
regal elections: depositions and abdications were frequent, while, in
the place of the old and prudent, the ardent youth would step forward,
eager for action, regardless of danger. Often too, the voice to which
all listened was suddenly silenced, the helping hand cold, the
sympathetic eye closed, and the villagers feared still more the death
that had selected a choice victim, shivering in dust the heart that had
beat for them, reducing to incommunicable annihilation the mind for
ever occupied with projects for their welfare.
Whoever labours for man must often find ingratitude, watered by vice
and folly, spring from the grain which he has sown. Death, which had in
our younger days walked the earth like “a thief that comes in the
night,” now, rising from his subterranean vault, girt with power, with
dark banner floating, came a conqueror. Many saw, seated above his
vice-regal throne, a supreme Providence, who directed his shafts, and
guided his progress, and they bowed their heads in resignation, or at
least in obedience. Others perceived only a passing casualty; they
endeavoured to exchange terror for heedlessness, and plunged into
licentiousness, to avoid the agonizing throes of worst apprehension.
Thus, while the wise, the good, and the prudent were occupied by the
labours of benevolence, the truce of winter produced other effects
among the young, the thoughtless, and the vicious. During the colder
months there was a general rush to London in search of amusement—the
ties of public opinion were loosened; many were rich, heretofore
poor—many had lost father and mother, the guardians of their morals,
their mentors and restraints. It would have been useless to have
opposed these impulses by barriers, which would only have driven those
actuated by them to more pernicious indulgencies. The theatres were
open and thronged; dance and midnight festival were frequented—in many
of these decorum was violated, and the evils, which hitherto adhered to
an advanced state of civilization, were doubled. The student left his
books, the artist his study: the occupations of life were gone, but the
amusements remained; enjoyment might be protracted to the verge of the
grave. All factitious colouring disappeared—death rose like night, and,
protected by its murky shadows the blush of modesty, the reserve of
pride, the decorum of prudery were frequently thrown aside as useless
veils. This was not universal. Among better natures, anguish and dread,
the fear of eternal separation, and the awful wonder produced by
unprecedented calamity, drew closer the ties of kindred and friendship.
Philosophers opposed their principles, as barriers to the inundation of
profligacy or despair, and the only ramparts to protect the invaded
territory of human life; the religious, hoping now for their reward,
clung fast to their creeds, as the rafts and planks which over the
tempest-vexed sea of suffering, would bear them in safety to the
harbour of the Unknown Continent. The loving heart, obliged to contract
its view, bestowed its overflow of affection in triple portion on the
few that remained. Yet, even among these, the present, as an
unalienable possession, became all of time to which they dared commit
the precious freight of their hopes.
The experience of immemorial time had taught us formerly to count our
enjoyments by years, and extend our prospect of life through a
lengthened period of progression and decay; the long road threaded a
vast labyrinth, and the Valley of the Shadow of Death, in which it
terminated, was hid by intervening objects. But an earthquake had
changed the scene—under our very feet the earth yawned—deep and
precipitous the gulph below opened to receive us, while the hours
charioted us towards the chasm. But it was winter now, and months must
elapse before we are hurled from our security. We became ephemera, to
whom the interval between the rising and setting sun was as a long
drawn year of common time. We should never see our children ripen into
maturity, nor behold their downy cheeks roughen, their blithe hearts
subdued by passion or care; but we had them now—they lived, and we
lived—what more could we desire? With such schooling did my poor Idris
try to hush thronging fears, and in some measure succeeded. It was not
as in summer-time, when each hour might bring the dreaded fate—until
summer, we felt sure; and this certainty, short lived as it must be,
yet for awhile satisfied her maternal tenderness. I know not how to
express or communicate the sense of concentrated, intense, though
evanescent transport, that imparadized us in the present hour. Our joys
were dearer because we saw their end; they were keener because we felt,
to its fullest extent, their value; they were purer because their
essence was sympathy— as a meteor is brighter than a star, did the
felicity of this winter contain in itself the extracted delights of a
long, long life.
How lovely is spring! As we looked from Windsor Terrace on the sixteen
fertile counties spread beneath, speckled by happy cottages and
wealthier towns, all looked as in former years, heart-cheering and
fair. The land was ploughed, the slender blades of wheat broke through
the dark soil, the fruit trees were covered with buds, the husbandman
was abroad in the fields, the milk-maid tripped home with well-filled
pails, the swallows and martins struck the sunny pools with their long,
pointed wings, the new dropped lambs reposed on the young grass, the
tender growth of leaves—
Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds
A silent space with ever sprouting green.[12]
Man himself seemed to regenerate, and feel the frost of winter yield to
an elastic and warm renewal of life—reason told us that care and sorrow
would grow with the opening year—but how to believe the ominous voice
breathed up with pestiferous vapours from fear’s dim cavern, while
nature, laughing and scattering from her green lap flowers, and fruits,
and sparkling waters, invited us to join the gay masque of young life
she led upon the scene?
Where was the plague? “Here—every where!” one voice of horror and
dismay exclaimed, when in the pleasant days of a sunny May the
Destroyer of man brooded again over the earth, forcing the spirit to
leave its organic chrysalis, and to enter upon an untried life. With
one mighty sweep of its potent weapon, all caution, all care, all
prudence were levelled low: death sat at the tables of the great,
stretched itself on the cottager’s pallet, seized the dastard who fled,
quelled the brave man who resisted: despondency entered every heart,
sorrow dimmed every eye.
Sights of woe now became familiar to me, and were I to tell all of
anguish and pain that I witnessed, of the despairing moans of age, and
the more terrible smiles of infancy in the bosom of horror, my reader,
his limbs quivering and his hair on end, would wonder how I did not,
seized with sudden frenzy, dash myself from some precipice, and so
close my eyes for ever on the sad end of the world. But the powers of
love, poetry, and creative fancy will dwell even beside the sick of the
plague, with the squalid, and with the dying. A feeling of devotion, of
duty, of a high and steady purpose, elevated me; a strange joy filled
my heart. In the midst of saddest grief I seemed to tread air, while
the spirit of good shed round me an ambrosial atmosphere, which blunted
the sting of sympathy, and purified the air of sighs. If my wearied
soul flagged in its career, I thought of my loved home, of the casket
that contained my treasures, of the kiss of love and the filial caress,
while my eyes were moistened by purest dew, and my heart was at once
softened and refreshed by thrilling tenderness.
Maternal affection had not rendered Idris selfish; at the beginning of
our calamity she had, with thoughtless enthusiasm, devoted herself to
the care of the sick and helpless. I checked her; and she submitted to
my rule. I told her how the fear of her danger palsied my exertions,
how the knowledge of her safety strung my nerves to endurance. I shewed
her the dangers which her children incurred during her absence; and she
at length agreed not to go beyond the inclosure of the forest. Indeed,
within the walls of the Castle we had a colony of the unhappy, deserted
by their relatives, and in themselves helpless, sufficient to occupy
her time and attention, while ceaseless anxiety for my welfare and the
health of her children, however she strove to curb or conceal it,
absorbed all her thoughts, and undermined the vital principle. After
watching over and providing for their safety, her second care was to
hide from me her anguish and tears. Each night I returned to the
Castle, and found there repose and love awaiting me. Often I waited
beside the bed of death till midnight, and through the obscurity of
rainy, cloudy nights rode many miles, sustained by one circumstance
only, the safety and sheltered repose of those I loved. If some scene
of tremendous agony shook my frame and fevered my brow, I would lay my
head on the lap of Idris, and the tumultuous pulses subsided into a
temperate flow —her smile could raise me from hopelessness, her embrace
bathe my sorrowing heart in calm peace. Summer advanced, and, crowned
with the sun’s potent rays, plague shot her unerring shafts over the
earth. The nations beneath their influence bowed their heads, and died.
The corn that sprung up in plenty, lay in autumn rotting on the ground,
while the melancholy wretch who had gone out to gather bread for his
children, lay stiff and plague-struck in the furrow. The green woods
waved their boughs majestically, while the dying were spread beneath
their shade, answering the solemn melody with inharmonious cries. The
painted birds flitted through the shades; the careless deer reposed
unhurt upon the fern—the oxen and the horses strayed from their
unguarded stables, and grazed among the wheat, for death fell on man
alone.
With summer and mortality grew our fears. My poor love and I looked at
each other, and our babes.—“We will save them, Idris,” I said, “I will
save them. Years hence we shall recount to them our fears, then passed
away with their occasion. Though they only should remain on the earth,
still they shall live, nor shall their cheeks become pale nor their
sweet voices languish.” Our eldest in some degree understood the scenes
passing around, and at times, he with serious looks questioned me
concerning the reason of so vast a desolation. But he was only ten
years old; and the hilarity of youth soon chased unreasonable care from
his brow. Evelyn, a laughing cherub, a gamesome infant, without idea of
pain or sorrow, would, shaking back his light curls from his eyes, make
the halls re-echo with his merriment, and in a thousand artless ways
attract our attention to his play. Clara, our lovely gentle Clara, was
our stay, our solace, our delight. She made it her task to attend the
sick, comfort the sorrowing, assist the aged, and partake the sports
and awaken the gaiety of the young. She flitted through the rooms, like
a good spirit, dispatched from the celestial kingdom, to illumine our
dark hour with alien splendour. Gratitude and praise marked where her
footsteps had been. Yet, when she stood in unassuming simplicity before
us, playing with our children, or with girlish assiduity performing
little kind offices for Idris, one wondered in what fair lineament of
her pure loveliness, in what soft tone of her thrilling voice, so much
of heroism, sagacity and active goodness resided.
The summer passed tediously, for we trusted that winter would at least
check the disease. That it would vanish altogether was an hope too
dear— too heartfelt, to be expressed. When such a thought was
heedlessly uttered, the hearers, with a gush of tears and passionate
sobs, bore witness how deep their fears were, how small their hopes.
For my own part, my exertions for the public good permitted me to
observe more closely than most others, the virulence and extensive
ravages of our sightless enemy. A short month has destroyed a village,
and where in May the first person sickened, in June the paths were
deformed by unburied corpses—the houses tenantless, no smoke arising
from the chimneys; and the housewife’s clock marked only the hour when
death had been triumphant. From such scenes I have sometimes saved a
deserted infant—sometimes led a young and grieving mother from the
lifeless image of her first born, or drawn the sturdy labourer from
childish weeping over his extinct family.
July is gone. August must pass, and by the middle of September we may
hope. Each day was eagerly counted; and the inhabitants of towns,
desirous to leap this dangerous interval, plunged into dissipation, and
strove, by riot, and what they wished to imagine to be pleasure, to
banish thought and opiate despair. None but Adrian could have tamed the
motley population of London, which, like a troop of unbitted steeds
rushing to their pastures, had thrown aside all minor fears, through
the operation of the fear paramount. Even Adrian was obliged in part to
yield, that he might be able, if not to guide, at least to set bounds
to the license of the times. The theatres were kept open; every place
of public resort was frequented; though he endeavoured so to modify
them, as might best quiet the agitation of the spectators, and at the
same time prevent a reaction of misery when the excitement was over.
Tragedies deep and dire were the chief favourites. Comedy brought with
it too great a contrast to the inner despair: when such were attempted,
it was not unfrequent for a comedian, in the midst of the laughter
occasioned by his disporportioned buffoonery, to find a word or thought
in his part that jarred with his own sense of wretchedness, and burst
from mimic merriment into sobs and tears, while the spectators, seized
with irresistible sympathy, wept, and the pantomimic revelry was
changed to a real exhibition of tragic passion.
It was not in my nature to derive consolation from such scenes; from
theatres, whose buffoon laughter and discordant mirth awakened
distempered sympathy, or where fictitious tears and wailings mocked the
heart-felt grief within; from festival or crowded meeting, where
hilarity sprung from the worst feelings of our nature, or such
enthralment of the better ones, as impressed it with garish and false
varnish; from assemblies of mourners in the guise of revellers. Once
however I witnessed a scene of singular interest at one of the
theatres, where nature overpowered art, as an overflowing cataract will
tear away the puny manufacture of a mock cascade, which had before been
fed by a small portion of its waters.
I had come to London to see Adrian. He was not at the palace; and,
though the attendants did not know whither he had gone, they did not
expect him till late at night. It was between six and seven o’clock, a
fine summer afternoon, and I spent my leisure hours in a ramble through
the empty streets of London; now turning to avoid an approaching
funeral, now urged by curiosity to observe the state of a particular
spot; my wanderings were instinct with pain, for silence and desertion
characterized every place I visited, and the few beings I met were so
pale and woe-begone, so marked with care and depressed by fear, that
weary of encountering only signs of misery, I began to retread my steps
towards home.
I was now in Holborn, and passed by a public house filled with
uproarious companions, whose songs, laughter, and shouts were more
sorrowful than the pale looks and silence of the mourner. Such an one
was near, hovering round this house. The sorry plight of her dress
displayed her poverty, she was ghastly pale, and continued approaching,
first the window and then the door of the house, as if fearful, yet
longing to enter. A sudden burst of song and merriment seemed to sting
her to the heart; she murmured, “Can he have the heart?” and then
mustering her courage, she stepped within the threshold. The landlady
met her in the passage; the poor creature asked, “Is my husband here?
Can I see George?”
“See him,” cried the woman, “yes, if you go to him; last night he was
taken with the plague, and we sent him to the hospital.”
The unfortunate inquirer staggered against a wall, a faint cry escaped
her —“O! were you cruel enough,” she exclaimed, “to send him there?”
The landlady meanwhile hurried away; but a more compassionate bar-maid
gave her a detailed account, the sum of which was, that her husband had
been taken ill, after a night of riot, and sent by his boon companions
with all expedition to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. I had watched this
scene, for there was a gentleness about the poor woman that interested
me; she now tottered away from the door, walking as well as she could
down Holborn Hill; but her strength soon failed her; she leaned against
a wall, and her head sunk on her bosom, while her pallid cheek became
still more white. I went up to her and offered my services. She hardly
looked up—“You can do me no good,” she replied; “I must go to the
hospital; if I do not die before I get there.”
There were still a few hackney-coaches accustomed to stand about the
streets, more truly from habit than for use. I put her in one of these,
and entered with her that I might secure her entrance into the
hospital. Our way was short, and she said little; except interrupted
ejaculations of reproach that he had left her, exclamations on the
unkindness of some of his friends, and hope that she would find him
alive. There was a simple, natural earnestness about her that
interested me in her fate, especially when she assured me that her
husband was the best of men,—had been so, till want of business during
these unhappy times had thrown him into bad company. “He could not bear
to come home,” she said, “only to see our children die. A man cannot
have the patience a mother has, with her own flesh and blood.”
We were set down at St. Bartholomew’s, and entered the wretched
precincts of the house of disease. The poor creature clung closer to
me, as she saw with what heartless haste they bore the dead from the
wards, and took them into a room, whose half-opened door displayed a
number of corpses, horrible to behold by one unaccustomed to such
scenes. We were directed to the ward where her husband had been first
taken, and still was, the nurse said, if alive. My companion looked
eagerly from one bed to the other, till at the end of the ward she
espied, on a wretched bed, a squalid, haggard creature, writhing under
the torture of disease. She rushed towards him, she embraced him,
blessing God for his preservation.
The enthusiasm that inspired her with this strange joy, blinded her to
the horrors about her; but they were intolerably agonizing to me. The
ward was filled with an effluvia that caused my heart to heave with
painful qualms. The dead were carried out, and the sick brought in,
with like indifference; some were screaming with pain, others laughing
from the influence of more terrible delirium; some were attended by
weeping, despairing relations, others called aloud with thrilling
tenderness or reproach on the friends who had deserted them, while the
nurses went from bed to bed, incarnate images of despair, neglect, and
death. I gave gold to my luckless companion; I recommended her to the
care of the attendants; I then hastened away; while the tormentor, the
imagination, busied itself in picturing my own loved ones, stretched on
such beds, attended thus. The country afforded no such mass of horrors;
solitary wretches died in the open fields; and I have found a survivor
in a vacant village, contending at once with famine and disease; but
the assembly of pestilence, the banqueting hall of death, was spread
only in London.
I rambled on, oppressed, distracted by painful emotions—suddenly I
found myself before Drury Lane Theatre. The play was Macbeth—the first
actor of the age was there to exert his powers to drug with
irreflection the auditors; such a medicine I yearned for, so I entered.
The theatre was tolerably well filled. Shakspeare, whose popularity was
established by the approval of four centuries, had not lost his
influence even at this dread period; but was still “Ut magus,” the
wizard to rule our hearts and govern our imaginations. I came in during
the interval between the third and fourth act. I looked round on the
audience; the females were mostly of the lower classes, but the men
were of all ranks, come hither to forget awhile the protracted scenes
of wretchedness, which awaited them at their miserable homes. The
curtain drew up, and the stage presented the scene of the witches’
cave. The wildness and supernatural machinery of Macbeth, was a pledge
that it could contain little directly connected with our present
circumstances. Great pains had been taken in the scenery to give the
semblance of reality to the impossible. The extreme darkness of the
stage, whose only light was received from the fire under the cauldron,
joined to a kind of mist that floated about it, rendered the unearthly
shapes of the witches obscure and shadowy. It was not three decrepid
old hags that bent over their pot throwing in the grim ingredients of
the magic charm, but forms frightful, unreal, and fanciful. The
entrance of Hecate, and the wild music that followed, took us out of
this world. The cavern shape the stage assumed, the beetling rocks, the
glare of the fire, the misty shades that crossed the scene at times,
the music in harmony with all witch-like fancies, permitted the
imagination to revel, without fear of contradiction, or reproof from
reason or the heart. The entrance of Macbeth did not destroy the
illusion, for he was actuated by the same feelings that inspired us,
and while the work of magic proceeded we sympathized in his wonder and
his daring, and gave ourselves up with our whole souls to the influence
of scenic delusion. I felt the beneficial result of such excitement, in
a renewal of those pleasing flights of fancy to which I had long been a
stranger. The effect of this scene of incantation communicated a
portion of its power to that which followed. We forgot that Malcolm and
Macduff were mere human beings, acted upon by such simple passions as
warmed our own breasts. By slow degrees however we were drawn to the
real interest of the scene. A shudder like the swift passing of an
electric shock ran through the house, when Rosse exclaimed, in answer
to “Stands Scotland where it did?”
Alas, poor country;
Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot
Be called our mother, but our grave: where nothing,
But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile;
Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks that rent the air,
Are made, not marked; where violent sorrow seems
A modern extasy: the dead man’s knell
Is there scarce asked, for who; and good men’s lives
Expire before the flowers in their caps,
Dying, or ere they sicken.
Each word struck the sense, as our life’s passing bell; we feared to
look at each other, but bent our gaze on the stage, as if our eyes
could fall innocuous on that alone. The person who played the part of
Rosse, suddenly became aware of the dangerous ground he trod. He was an
inferior actor, but truth now made him excellent; as he went on to
announce to Macduff the slaughter of his family, he was afraid to
speak, trembling from apprehension of a burst of grief from the
audience, not from his fellow-mime. Each word was drawn out with
difficulty; real anguish painted his features; his eyes were now lifted
in sudden horror, now fixed in dread upon the ground. This shew of
terror encreased ours, we gasped with him, each neck was stretched out,
each face changed with the actor’s changes— at length while Macduff,
who, attending to his part, was unobservant of the high wrought
sympathy of the house, cried with well acted passion:
All my pretty ones?
Did you say all?—O hell kite! All?
What! all my pretty chickens, and their dam,
At one fell swoop!
A pang of tameless grief wrenched every heart, a burst of despair was
echoed from every lip.—I had entered into the universal feeling—I had
been absorbed by the terrors of Rosse—I re-echoed the cry of Macduff,
and then rushed out as from an hell of torture, to find calm in the
free air and silent street.
Free the air was not, or the street silent. Oh, how I longed then for
the dear soothings of maternal Nature, as my wounded heart was still
further stung by the roar of heartless merriment from the public-house,
by the sight of the drunkard reeling home, having lost the memory of
what he would find there in oblivious debauch, and by the more
appalling salutations of those melancholy beings to whom the name of
home was a mockery. I ran on at my utmost speed until I found myself I
knew not how, close to Westminster Abbey, and was attracted by the deep
and swelling tone of the organ. I entered with soothing awe the lighted
chancel, and listened to the solemn religious chaunt, which spoke peace
and hope to the unhappy. The notes, freighted with man’s dearest
prayers, re-echoed through the dim aisles, and the bleeding of the
soul’s wounds was staunched by heavenly balm. In spite of the misery I
deprecated, and could not understand; in spite of the cold hearths of
wide London, and the corpse-strewn fields of my native land; in spite
of all the variety of agonizing emotions I had that evening
experienced, I thought that in reply to our melodious adjurations, the
Creator looked down in compassion and promise of relief; the awful peal
of the heaven-winged music seemed fitting voice wherewith to commune
with the Supreme; calm was produced by its sound, and by the sight of
many other human creatures offering up prayers and submission with me.
A sentiment approaching happiness followed the total resignation of
one’s being to the guardianship of the world’s ruler. Alas! with the
failing of this solemn strain, the elevated spirit sank again to earth.
Suddenly one of the choristers died—he was lifted from his desk, the
vaults below were hastily opened—he was consigned with a few muttered
prayers to the darksome cavern, abode of thousands who had gone
before—now wide yawning to receive even all who fulfilled the funeral
rites. In vain I would then have turned from this scene, to darkened
aisle or lofty dome, echoing with melodious praise. In the open air
alone I found relief; among nature’s beauteous works, her God reassumed
his attribute of benevolence, and again I could trust that he who built
up the mountains, planted the forests, and poured out the rivers, would
erect another state for lost humanity, where we might awaken again to
our affections, our happiness, and our faith.
Fortunately for me those circumstances were of rare occurrence that
obliged me to visit London, and my duties were confined to the rural
district which our lofty castle overlooked; and here labour stood in
the place of pastime, to occupy such of the country people as were
sufficiently exempt from sorrow or disease. My endeavours were directed
towards urging them to their usual attention to their crops, and to the
acting as if pestilence did not exist. The mower’s scythe was at times
heard; yet the joyless haymakers after they had listlessly turned the
grass, forgot to cart it; the shepherd, when he had sheared his sheep,
would let the wool lie to be scattered by the winds, deeming it useless
to provide clothing for another winter. At times however the spirit of
life was awakened by these employments; the sun, the refreshing breeze,
the sweet smell of the hay, the rustling leaves and prattling rivulets
brought repose to the agitated bosom, and bestowed a feeling akin to
happiness on the apprehensive. Nor, strange to say, was the time
without its pleasures. Young couples, who had loved long and
hopelessly, suddenly found every impediment removed, and wealth pour in
from the death of relatives. The very danger drew them closer. The
immediate peril urged them to seize the immediate opportunity; wildly
and passionately they sought to know what delights existence afforded,
before they yielded to death, and
Snatching their pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life,[13]
they defied the conquering pestilence to destroy what had been, or to
erase even from their death-bed thoughts the sentiment of happiness
which had been theirs.
One instance of this kind came immediately under our notice, where a
high-born girl had in early youth given her heart to one of meaner
extraction. He was a schoolfellow and friend of her brother’s, and
usually spent a part of the holidays at the mansion of the duke her
father. They had played together as children, been the confidants of
each other’s little secrets, mutual aids and consolers in difficulty
and sorrow. Love had crept in, noiseless, terrorless at first, till
each felt their life bound up in the other, and at the same time knew
that they must part. Their extreme youth, and the purity of their
attachment, made them yield with less resistance to the tyranny of
circumstances. The father of the fair Juliet separated them; but not
until the young lover had promised to remain absent only till he had
rendered himself worthy of her, and she had vowed to preserve her
virgin heart, his treasure, till he returned to claim and possess it.
Plague came, threatening to destroy at once the aim of the ambitious
and the hopes of love. Long the Duke of L——derided the idea that there
could be danger while he pursued his plans of cautious seclusion; and
he so far succeeded, that it was not till this second summer, that the
destroyer, at one fell stroke, overthrew his precautions, his security,
and his life. Poor Juliet saw one by one, father, mother, brothers, and
sisters, sicken and die. Most of the servants fled on the first
appearance of disease, those who remained were infected mortally; no
neighbour or rustic ventured within the verge of contagion. By a
strange fatality Juliet alone escaped, and she to the last waited on
her relatives, and smoothed the pillow of death. The moment at length
came, when the last blow was given to the last of the house: the
youthful survivor of her race sat alone among the dead. There was no
living being near to soothe her, or withdraw her from this hideous
company. With the declining heat of a September night, a whirlwind of
storm, thunder, and hail, rattled round the house, and with ghastly
harmony sung the dirge of her family. She sat upon the ground absorbed
in wordless despair, when through the gusty wind and bickering rain she
thought she heard her name called. Whose could that familiar voice be?
Not one of her relations, for they lay glaring on her with stony eyes.
Again her name was syllabled, and she shuddered as she asked herself,
am I becoming mad, or am I dying, that I hear the voices of the
departed? A second thought passed, swift as an arrow, into her brain;
she rushed to the window; and a flash of lightning shewed to her the
expected vision, her lover in the shrubbery beneath; joy lent her
strength to descend the stairs, to open the door, and then she fainted
in his supporting arms.
A thousand times she reproached herself, as with a crime, that she
should revive to happiness with him. The natural clinging of the human
mind to life and joy was in its full energy in her young heart; she
gave herself impetuously up to the enchantment: they were married; and
in their radiant features I saw incarnate, for the last time, the
spirit of love, of rapturous sympathy, which once had been the life of
the world.
I envied them, but felt how impossible it was to imbibe the same
feeling, now that years had multiplied my ties in the world. Above all,
the anxious mother, my own beloved and drooping Idris, claimed my
earnest care; I could not reproach the anxiety that never for a moment
slept in her heart, but I exerted myself to distract her attention from
too keen an observation of the truth of things, of the near and nearer
approaches of disease, misery, and death, of the wild look of our
attendants as intelligence of another and yet another death reached us;
for to the last something new occurred that seemed to transcend in
horror all that had gone before. Wretched beings crawled to die under
our succouring roof; the inhabitants of the Castle decreased daily,
while the survivors huddled together in fear, and, as in a
famine-struck boat, the sport of the wild, interminable waves, each
looked in the other’s face, to guess on whom the death-lot would next
fall. All this I endeavoured to veil, so that it might least impress my
Idris; yet, as I have said, my courage survived even despair: I might
be vanquished, but I would not yield.
One day, it was the ninth of September, seemed devoted to every
disaster, to every harrowing incident. Early in the day, I heard of the
arrival of the aged grandmother of one of our servants at the Castle.
This old woman had reached her hundredth year; her skin was shrivelled,
her form was bent and lost in extreme decrepitude; but as still from
year to year she continued in existence, out-living many younger and
stronger, she began to feel as if she were to live for ever. The plague
came, and the inhabitants of her village died. Clinging, with the
dastard feeling of the aged, to the remnant of her spent life, she had,
on hearing that the pestilence had come into her neighbourhood, barred
her door, and closed her casement, refusing to communicate with any.
She would wander out at night to get food, and returned home, pleased
that she had met no one, that she was in no danger from the plague. As
the earth became more desolate, her difficulty in acquiring sustenance
increased; at first, her son, who lived near, had humoured her by
placing articles of food in her way: at last he died. But, even though
threatened by famine, her fear of the plague was paramount; and her
greatest care was to avoid her fellow creatures. She grew weaker each
day, and each day she had further to go. The night before, she had
reached Datchet; and, prowling about, had found a baker’s shop open and
deserted. Laden with spoil, she hastened to return, and lost her way.
The night was windless, hot, and cloudy; her load became too heavy for
her; and one by one she threw away her loaves, still endeavouring to
get along, though her hobbling fell into lameness, and her weakness at
last into inability to move.
She lay down among the tall corn, and fell asleep. Deep in midnight,
she was awaked by a rustling near her; she would have started up, but
her stiff joints refused to obey her will. A low moan close to her ear
followed, and the rustling increased; she heard a smothered voice
breathe out, Water, Water! several times; and then again a sigh heaved
from the heart of the sufferer. The old woman shuddered, she contrived
at length to sit upright; but her teeth chattered, and her knees
knocked together—close, very close, lay a half-naked figure, just
discernible in the gloom, and the cry for water and the stifled moan
were again uttered. Her motions at length attracted the attention of
her unknown companion; her hand was seized with a convulsive violence
that made the grasp feel like iron, the fingers like the keen teeth of
a trap.—“At last you are come!” were the words given forth—but this
exertion was the last effort of the dying—the joints relaxed, the
figure fell prostrate, one low moan, the last, marked the moment of
death. Morning broke; and the old woman saw the corpse, marked with the
fatal disease, close to her; her wrist was livid with the hold loosened
by death. She felt struck by the plague; her aged frame was unable to
bear her away with sufficient speed; and now, believing herself
infected, she no longer dreaded the association of others; but, as
swiftly as she might, came to her grand-daughter, at Windsor Castle,
there to lament and die. The sight was horrible; still she clung to
life, and lamented her mischance with cries and hideous groans; while
the swift advance of the disease shewed, what proved to be the fact,
that she could not survive many hours.
While I was directing that the necessary care should be taken of her,
Clara came in; she was trembling and pale; and, when I anxiously asked
her the cause of her agitation, she threw herself into my arms weeping
and exclaiming—“Uncle, dearest uncle, do not hate me for ever! I must
tell you, for you must know, that Evelyn, poor little Evelyn”—her voice
was choked by sobs. The fear of so mighty a calamity as the loss of our
adored infant made the current of my blood pause with chilly horror;
but the remembrance of the mother restored my presence of mind. I
sought the little bed of my darling; he was oppressed by fever; but I
trusted, I fondly and fearfully trusted, that there were no symptoms of
the plague. He was not three years old, and his illness appeared only
one of those attacks incident to infancy. I watched him long—his heavy
half-closed lids, his burning cheeks and restless twining of his small
fingers—the fever was violent, the torpor complete—enough, without the
greater fear of pestilence, to awaken alarm. Idris must not see him in
this state. Clara, though only twelve years old, was rendered, through
extreme sensibility, so prudent and careful, that I felt secure in
entrusting the charge of him to her, and it was my task to prevent
Idris from observing their absence. I administered the fitting
remedies, and left my sweet niece to watch beside him, and bring me
notice of any change she should observe.
I then went to Idris, contriving in my way, plausible excuses for
remaining all day in the Castle, and endeavouring to disperse the
traces of care from my brow. Fortunately she was not alone. I found
Merrival, the astronomer, with her. He was far too long sighted in his
view of humanity to heed the casualties of the day, and lived in the
midst of contagion unconscious of its existence. This poor man, learned
as La Place, guileless and unforeseeing as a child, had often been on
the point of starvation, he, his pale wife and numerous offspring,
while he neither felt hunger, nor observed distress. His astronomical
theories absorbed him; calculations were scrawled with coal on the bare
walls of his garret: a hard-earned guinea, or an article of dress, was
exchanged for a book without remorse; he neither heard his children
cry, nor observed his companion’s emaciated form, and the excess of
calamity was merely to him as the occurrence of a cloudy night, when he
would have given his right hand to observe a celestial phenomenon. His
wife was one of those wondrous beings, to be found only among women,
with affections not to be diminished by misfortune. Her mind was
divided between boundless admiration for her husband, and tender
anxiety for her children—she waited on him, worked for them, and never
complained, though care rendered her life one long-drawn, melancholy
dream.
He had introduced himself to Adrian, by a request he made to observe
some planetary motions from his glass. His poverty was easily detected
and relieved. He often thanked us for the books we lent him, and for
the use of our instruments, but never spoke of his altered abode or
change of circumstances. His wife assured us, that he had not observed
any difference, except in the absence of the children from his study,
and to her infinite surprise he complained of this unaccustomed quiet.
He came now to announce to us the completion of his Essay on the
Pericyclical Motions of the Earth’s Axis, and the precession of the
equinoctial points. If an old Roman of the period of the Republic had
returned to life, and talked of the impending election of some
laurel-crowned consul, or of the last battle with Mithridates, his
ideas would not have been more alien to the times, than the
conversation of Merrival. Man, no longer with an appetite for sympathy,
clothed his thoughts in visible signs; nor were there any readers left:
while each one, having thrown away his sword with opposing shield
alone, awaited the plague, Merrival talked of the state of mankind six
thousand years hence. He might with equal interest to us, have added a
commentary, to describe the unknown and unimaginable lineaments of the
creatures, who would then occupy the vacated dwelling of mankind. We
had not the heart to undeceive the poor old man; and at the moment I
came in, he was reading parts of his book to Idris, asking what answer
could be given to this or that position.
Idris could not refrain from a smile, as she listened; she had already
gathered from him that his family was alive and in health; though not
apt to forget the precipice of time on which she stood, yet I could
perceive that she was amused for a moment, by the contrast between the
contracted view we had so long taken of human life, and the seven
league strides with which Merrival paced a coming eternity. I was glad
to see her smile, because it assured me of her total ignorance of her
infant’s danger: but I shuddered to think of the revulsion that would
be occasioned by a discovery of the truth. While Merrival was talking,
Clara softly opened a door behind Idris, and beckoned me to come with a
gesture and look of grief. A mirror betrayed the sign to Idris—she
started up. To suspect evil, to perceive that, Alfred being with us,
the danger must regard her youngest darling, to fly across the long
chambers into his apartment, was the work but of a moment. There she
beheld her Evelyn lying fever-stricken and motionless. I followed her,
and strove to inspire more hope than I could myself entertain; but she
shook her head mournfully. Anguish deprived her of presence of mind;
she gave up to me and Clara the physician’s and nurse’s parts; she sat
by the bed, holding one little burning hand, and, with glazed eyes
fixed on her babe, passed the long day in one unvaried agony. It was
not the plague that visited our little boy so roughly; but she could
not listen to my assurances; apprehension deprived her of judgment and
reflection; every slight convulsion of her child’s features shook her
frame —if he moved, she dreaded the instant crisis; if he remained
still, she saw death in his torpor, and the cloud on her brow darkened.
The poor little thing’s fever encreased towards night. The sensation is
most dreary, to use no stronger term, with which one looks forward to
passing the long hours of night beside a sick bed, especially if the
patient be an infant, who cannot explain its pain, and whose flickering
life resembles the wasting flame of the watch-light,
Whose narrow fire
Is shaken by the wind, and on whose edge
Devouring darkness hovers.[14]
With eagerness one turns toward the east, with angry impatience one
marks the unchequered darkness; the crowing of a cock, that sound of
glee during day-time, comes wailing and untuneable—the creaking of
rafters, and slight stir of invisible insect is heard and felt as the
signal and type of desolation. Clara, overcome by weariness, had seated
herself at the foot of her cousin’s bed, and in spite of her efforts
slumber weighed down her lids; twice or thrice she shook it off; but at
length she was conquered and slept. Idris sat at the bedside, holding
Evelyn’s hand; we were afraid to speak to each other; I watched the
stars —I hung over my child—I felt his little pulse—I drew near the
mother—again I receded. At the turn of morning a gentle sigh from the
patient attracted me, the burning spot on his cheek faded—his pulse
beat softly and regularly—torpor yielded to sleep. For a long time I
dared not hope; but when his unobstructed breathing and the moisture
that suffused his forehead, were tokens no longer to be mistaken of the
departure of mortal malady, I ventured to whisper the news of the
change to Idris, and at length succeeded in persuading her that I spoke
truth.
But neither this assurance, nor the speedy convalescence of our child
could restore her, even to the portion of peace she before enjoyed. Her
fear had been too deep, too absorbing, too entire, to be changed to
security. She felt as if during her past calm she had dreamed, but was
now awake; she was
As one
In some lone watch-tower on the deep, awakened
From soothing visions of the home he loves,
Trembling to hear the wrathful billows roar;[15]
as one who has been cradled by a storm, and awakes to find the vessel
sinking. Before, she had been visited by pangs of fear—now, she never
enjoyed an interval of hope. No smile of the heart ever irradiated her
fair countenance; sometimes she forced one, and then gushing tears
would flow, and the sea of grief close above these wrecks of past
happiness. Still while I was near her, she could not be in utter
despair— she fully confided herself to me—she did not seem to fear my
death, or revert to its possibility; to my guardianship she consigned
the full freight of her anxieties, reposing on my love, as a
wind-nipped fawn by the side of a doe, as a wounded nestling under its
mother’s wing, as a tiny, shattered boat, quivering still, beneath some
protecting willow-tree. While I, not proudly as in days of joy, yet
tenderly, and with glad consciousness of the comfort I afforded, drew
my trembling girl close to my heart, and tried to ward every painful
thought or rough circumstance from her sensitive nature.
One other incident occurred at the end of this summer. The Countess of
Windsor, Ex-Queen of England, returned from Germany. She had at the
beginning of the season quitted the vacant city of Vienna; and, unable
to tame her haughty mind to anything like submission, she had delayed
at Hamburgh, and, when at last she came to London, many weeks elapsed
before she gave Adrian notice of her arrival. In spite of her coldness
and long absence, he welcomed her with sensibility, displaying such
affection as sought to heal the wounds of pride and sorrow, and was
repulsed only by her total apparent want of sympathy. Idris heard of
her mother’s return with pleasure. Her own maternal feelings were so
ardent, that she imagined her parent must now, in this waste world,
have lost pride and harshness, and would receive with delight her
filial attentions. The first check to her duteous demonstrations was a
formal intimation from the fallen majesty of England, that I was in no
manner to be intruded upon her. She consented, she said, to forgive her
daughter, and acknowledge her grandchildren; larger concessions must
not be expected.
To me this proceeding appeared (if so light a term may be permitted)
extremely whimsical. Now that the race of man had lost in fact all
distinction of rank, this pride was doubly fatuitous; now that we felt
a kindred, fraternal nature with all who bore the stamp of humanity,
this angry reminiscence of times for ever gone, was worse than foolish.
Idris was too much taken up by her own dreadful fears, to be angry,
hardly grieved; for she judged that insensibility must be the source of
this continued rancour. This was not altogether the fact: but
predominant self-will assumed the arms and masque of callous feeling;
and the haughty lady disdained to exhibit any token of the struggle she
endured; while the slave of pride, she fancied that she sacrificed her
happiness to immutable principle.
False was all this—false all but the affections of our nature, and the
links of sympathy with pleasure or pain. There was but one good and one
evil in the world—life and death. The pomp of rank, the assumption of
power, the possessions of wealth vanished like morning mist. One living
beggar had become of more worth than a national peerage of dead lords—
alas the day!—than of dead heroes, patriots, or men of genius. There
was much of degradation in this: for even vice and virtue had lost
their attributes—life—life—the continuation of our animal mechanism—
was the Alpha and Omega of the desires, the prayers, the prostrate
ambition of human race.
[10] Calderon de la Barca.
[11] [2] Wordsworth.
[12] Keats.
[13] Andrew Marvell.
[14] The Cenci
[15] The Brides’ Tragedy, by T. L. Beddoes, Esq.
CHAPTER IX.
Half England was desolate, when October came, and the equinoctial winds
swept over the earth, chilling the ardours of the unhealthy season. The
summer, which was uncommonly hot, had been protracted into the
beginning of this month, when on the eighteenth a sudden change was
brought about from summer temperature to winter frost. Pestilence then
made a pause in her death-dealing career. Gasping, not daring to name
our hopes, yet full even to the brim with intense expectation, we
stood, as a ship-wrecked sailor stands on a barren rock islanded by the
ocean, watching a distant vessel, fancying that now it nears, and then
again that it is bearing from sight. This promise of a renewed lease of
life turned rugged natures to melting tenderness, and by contrast
filled the soft with harsh and unnatural sentiments. When it seemed
destined that all were to die, we were reckless of the how and when—now
that the virulence of the disease was mitigated, and it appeared
willing to spare some, each was eager to be among the elect, and clung
to life with dastard tenacity. Instances of desertion became more
frequent; and even murders, which made the hearer sick with horror,
where the fear of contagion had armed those nearest in blood against
each other. But these smaller and separate tragedies were about to
yield to a mightier interest—and, while we were promised calm from
infectious influences, a tempest arose wilder than the winds, a tempest
bred by the passions of man, nourished by his most violent impulses,
unexampled and dire.
A number of people from North America, the relics of that populous
continent, had set sail for the East with mad desire of change, leaving
their native plains for lands not less afflicted than their own.
Several hundreds landed in Ireland, about the first of November, and
took possession of such vacant habitations as they could find; seizing
upon the superabundant food, and the stray cattle. As they exhausted
the produce of one spot, they went on to another. At length they began
to interfere with the inhabitants, and strong in their concentrated
numbers, ejected the natives from their dwellings, and robbed them of
their winter store. A few events of this kind roused the fiery nature
of the Irish; and they attacked the invaders. Some were destroyed; the
major part escaped by quick and well ordered movements; and danger made
them careful. Their numbers ably arranged; the very deaths among them
concealed; moving on in good order, and apparently given up to
enjoyment, they excited the envy of the Irish. The Americans permitted
a few to join their band, and presently the recruits outnumbered the
strangers—nor did they join with them, nor imitate the admirable order
which, preserved by the Trans-Atlantic chiefs, rendered them at once
secure and formidable. The Irish followed their track in disorganized
multitudes; each day encreasing; each day becoming more lawless. The
Americans were eager to escape from the spirit they had roused, and,
reaching the eastern shores of the island, embarked for England. Their
incursion would hardly have been felt had they come alone; but the
Irish, collected in unnatural numbers, began to feel the inroads of
famine, and they followed in the wake of the Americans for England
also. The crossing of the sea could not arrest their progress. The
harbours of the desolate sea-ports of the west of Ireland were filled
with vessels of all sizes, from the man of war to the small fishers’
boat, which lay sailorless, and rotting on the lazy deep. The emigrants
embarked by hundreds, and unfurling their sails with rude hands, made
strange havoc of buoy and cordage. Those who modestly betook themselves
to the smaller craft, for the most part achieved their watery journey
in safety. Some, in the true spirit of reckless enterprise, went on
board a ship of an hundred and twenty guns; the vast hull drifted with
the tide out of the bay, and after many hours its crew of landsmen
contrived to spread a great part of her enormous canvass—the wind took
it, and while a thousand mistakes of the helmsman made her present her
head now to one point, and now to another, the vast fields of canvass
that formed her sails flapped with a sound like that of a huge
cataract; or such as a sea-like forest may give forth when buffeted by
an equinoctial north-wind. The port-holes were open, and with every
sea, which as she lurched, washed her decks, they received whole tons
of water. The difficulties were increased by a fresh breeze which began
to blow, whistling among the shrowds, dashing the sails this way and
that, and rending them with horrid split, and such whir as may have
visited the dreams of Milton, when he imagined the winnowing of the
arch-fiend’s van-like wings, which encreased the uproar of wild chaos.
These sounds were mingled with the roaring of the sea, the splash of
the chafed billows round the vessel’s sides, and the gurgling up of the
water in the hold. The crew, many of whom had never seen the sea
before, felt indeed as if heaven and earth came ruining together, as
the vessel dipped her bows in the waves, or rose high upon them. Their
yells were drowned in the clamour of elements, and the thunder rivings
of their unwieldy habitation—they discovered at last that the water
gained on them, and they betook themselves to their pumps; they might
as well have laboured to empty the ocean by bucketfuls. As the sun went
down, the gale encreased; the ship seemed to feel her danger, she was
now completely water-logged, and presented other indications of
settling before she went down. The bay was crowded with vessels, whose
crews, for the most part, were observing the uncouth sportings of this
huge unwieldy machine—they saw her gradually sink; the waters now
rising above her lower decks—they could hardly wink before she had
utterly disappeared, nor could the place where the sea had closed over
her be at all discerned. Some few of her crew were saved, but the
greater part clinging to her cordage and masts went down with her, to
rise only when death loosened their hold.
This event caused many of those who were about to sail, to put foot
again on firm land, ready to encounter any evil rather than to rush
into the yawning jaws of the pitiless ocean. But these were few, in
comparison to the numbers who actually crossed. Many went up as high as
Belfast to ensure a shorter passage, and then journeying south through
Scotland, they were joined by the poorer natives of that country, and
all poured with one consent into England.
Such incursions struck the English with affright, in all those towns
where there was still sufficient population to feel the change. There
was room enough indeed in our hapless country for twice the number of
invaders; but their lawless spirit instigated them to violence; they
took a delight in thrusting the possessors from their houses; in
seizing on some mansion of luxury, where the noble dwellers secluded
themselves in fear of the plague; in forcing these of either sex to
become their servants and purveyors; till, the ruin complete in one
place, they removed their locust visitation to another. When unopposed
they spread their ravages wide; in cases of danger they clustered, and
by dint of numbers overthrew their weak and despairing foes. They came
from the east and the north, and directed their course without apparent
motive, but unanimously towards our unhappy metropolis.
Communication had been to a great degree cut off through the paralyzing
effects of pestilence, so that the van of our invaders had proceeded as
far as Manchester and Derby, before we received notice of their
arrival. They swept the country like a conquering army, burning—laying
waste— murdering. The lower and vagabond English joined with them. Some
few of the Lords Lieutenant who remained, endeavoured to collect the
militia—but the ranks were vacant, panic seized on all, and the
opposition that was made only served to increase the audacity and
cruelty of the enemy. They talked of taking London, conquering
England—calling to mind the long detail of injuries which had for many
years been forgotten. Such vaunts displayed their weakness, rather than
their strength—yet still they might do extreme mischief, which, ending
in their destruction, would render them at last objects of compassion
and remorse.
We were now taught how, in the beginning of the world, mankind clothed
their enemies in impossible attributes—and how details proceeding from
mouth to mouth, might, like Virgil’s ever-growing Rumour, reach the
heavens with her brow, and clasp Hesperus and Lucifer with her
outstretched hands. Gorgon and Centaur, dragon and iron-hoofed lion,
vast sea-monster and gigantic hydra, were but types of the strange and
appalling accounts brought to London concerning our invaders. Their
landing was long unknown, but having now advanced within an hundred
miles of London, the country people flying before them arrived in
successive troops, each exaggerating the numbers, fury, and cruelty of
the assailants. Tumult filled the before quiet streets—women and
children deserted their homes, escaping they knew not whither—fathers,
husbands, and sons, stood trembling, not for themselves, but for their
loved and defenceless relations. As the country people poured into
London, the citizens fled southwards—they climbed the higher edifices
of the town, fancying that they could discern the smoke and flames the
enemy spread around them. As Windsor lay, to a great degree, in the
line of march from the west, I removed my family to London, assigning
the Tower for their sojourn, and joining Adrian, acted as his
Lieutenant in the coming struggle.
We employed only two days in our preparations, and made good use of
them. Artillery and arms were collected; the remnants of such
regiments, as could be brought through many losses into any show of
muster, were put under arms, with that appearance of military
discipline which might encourage our own party, and seem most
formidable to the disorganized multitude of our enemies. Even music was
not wanting: banners floated in the air, and the shrill fife and loud
trumpet breathed forth sounds of encouragement and victory. A practised
ear might trace an undue faltering in the step of the soldiers; but
this was not occasioned so much by fear of the adversary, as by
disease, by sorrow, and by fatal prognostications, which often weighed
most potently on the brave, and quelled the manly heart to abject
subjection.
Adrian led the troops. He was full of care. It was small relief to him
that our discipline should gain us success in such a conflict; while
plague still hovered to equalize the conqueror and the conquered, it
was not victory that he desired, but bloodless peace. As we advanced,
we were met by bands of peasantry, whose almost naked condition, whose
despair and horror, told at once the fierce nature of the coming enemy.
The senseless spirit of conquest and thirst of spoil blinded them,
while with insane fury they deluged the country in ruin. The sight of
the military restored hope to those who fled, and revenge took place of
fear. They inspired the soldiers with the same sentiment. Languor was
changed to ardour, the slow step converted to a speedy pace, while the
hollow murmur of the multitude, inspired by one feeling, and that
deadly, filled the air, drowning the clang of arms and sound of music.
Adrian perceived the change, and feared that it would be difficult to
prevent them from wreaking their utmost fury on the Irish. He rode
through the lines, charging the officers to restrain the troops,
exhorting the soldiers, restoring order, and quieting in some degree
the violent agitation that swelled every bosom.
We first came upon a few stragglers of the Irish at St. Albans. They
retreated, and, joining others of their companions, still fell back,
till they reached the main body. Tidings of an armed and regular
opposition recalled them to a sort of order. They made Buckingham their
head-quarters, and scouts were sent out to ascertain our situation. We
remained for the night at Luton. In the morning a simultaneous movement
caused us each to advance. It was early dawn, and the air, impregnated
with freshest odour, seemed in idle mockery to play with our banners,
and bore onwards towards the enemy the music of the bands, the
neighings of the horses, and regular step of the infantry. The first
sound of martial instruments that came upon our undisciplined foe,
inspired surprise, not unmingled with dread. It spoke of other days, of
days of concord and order; it was associated with times when plague was
not, and man lived beyond the shadow of imminent fate. The pause was
momentary. Soon we heard their disorderly clamour, the barbarian
shouts, the untimed step of thousands coming on in disarray. Their
troops now came pouring on us from the open country or narrow lanes; a
large extent of unenclosed fields lay between us; we advanced to the
middle of this, and then made a halt: being somewhat on superior
ground, we could discern the space they covered. When their leaders
perceived us drawn out in opposition, they also gave the word to halt,
and endeavoured to form their men into some imitation of military
discipline. The first ranks had muskets; some were mounted, but their
arms were such as they had seized during their advance, their horses
those they had taken from the peasantry; there was no uniformity, and
little obedience, but their shouts and wild gestures showed the untamed
spirit that inspired them. Our soldiers received the word, and advanced
to quickest time, but in perfect order: their uniform dresses, the
gleam of their polished arms, their silence, and looks of sullen hate,
were more appalling than the savage clamour of our innumerous foe. Thus
coming nearer and nearer each other, the howls and shouts of the Irish
increased; the English proceeded in obedience to their officers, until
they came near enough to distinguish the faces of their enemies; the
sight inspired them with fury: with one cry, that rent heaven and was
re-echoed by the furthest lines, they rushed on; they disdained the use
of the bullet, but with fixed bayonet dashed among the opposing foe,
while the ranks opening at intervals, the matchmen lighted the cannon,
whose deafening roar and blinding smoke filled up the horror of the
scene. I was beside Adrian; a moment before he had again given the word
to halt, and had remained a few yards distant from us in deep
meditation: he was forming swiftly his plan of action, to prevent the
effusion of blood; the noise of cannon, the sudden rush of the troops,
and yell of the foe, startled him: with flashing eyes he exclaimed,
“Not one of these must perish!” and plunging the rowels into his
horse’s sides, he dashed between the conflicting bands. We, his staff,
followed him to surround and protect him; obeying his signal, however,
we fell back somewhat. The soldiery perceiving him, paused in their
onset; he did not swerve from the bullets that passed near him, but
rode immediately between the opposing lines. Silence succeeded to
clamour; about fifty men lay on the ground dying or dead. Adrian raised
his sword in act to speak: “By whose command,” he cried, addressing his
own troops, “do you advance? Who ordered your attack? Fall back; these
misguided men shall not be slaughtered, while I am your general. Sheath
your weapons; these are your brothers, commit not fratricide; soon the
plague will not leave one for you to glut your revenge upon: will you
be more pitiless than pestilence? As you honour me—as you worship God,
in whose image those also are created—as your children and friends are
dear to you,—shed not a drop of precious human blood.”
He spoke with outstretched hand and winning voice, and then turning to
our invaders, with a severe brow, he commanded them to lay down their
arms: “Do you think,” he said, “that because we are wasted by plague,
you can overcome us; the plague is also among you, and when ye are
vanquished by famine and disease, the ghosts of those you have murdered
will arise to bid you not hope in death. Lay down your arms, barbarous
and cruel men—men whose hands are stained with the blood of the
innocent, whose souls are weighed down by the orphan’s cry! We shall
conquer, for the right is on our side; already your cheeks are pale—the
weapons fall from your nerveless grasp. Lay down your arms, fellow men!
brethren! Pardon, succour, and brotherly love await your repentance.
You are dear to us, because you wear the frail shape of humanity; each
one among you will find a friend and host among these forces. Shall man
be the enemy of man, while plague, the foe to all, even now is above
us, triumphing in our butchery, more cruel than her own?”
Each army paused. On our side the soldiers grasped their arms firmly,
and looked with stern glances on the foe. These had not thrown down
their weapons, more from fear than the spirit of contest; they looked
at each other, each wishing to follow some example given him,—but they
had no leader. Adrian threw himself from his horse, and approaching one
of those just slain: “He was a man,” he cried, “and he is dead. O
quickly bind up the wounds of the fallen—let not one die; let not one
more soul escape through your merciless gashes, to relate before the
throne of God the tale of fratricide; bind up their wounds—restore them
to their friends. Cast away the hearts of tigers that burn in your
breasts; throw down those tools of cruelty and hate; in this pause of
exterminating destiny, let each man be brother, guardian, and stay to
the other. Away with those blood-stained arms, and hasten some of you
to bind up these wounds.”
As he spoke, he knelt on the ground, and raised in his arms a man from
whose side the warm tide of life gushed—the poor wretch gasped—so still
had either host become, that his moans were distinctly heard, and every
heart, late fiercely bent on universal massacre, now beat anxiously in
hope and fear for the fate of this one man. Adrian tore off his
military scarf and bound it round the sufferer—it was too late—the man
heaved a deep sigh, his head fell back, his limbs lost their sustaining
power.— “He is dead!” said Adrian, as the corpse fell from his arms on
the ground, and he bowed his head in sorrow and awe. The fate of the
world seemed bound up in the death of this single man. On either side
the bands threw down their arms, even the veterans wept, and our party
held out their hands to their foes, while a gush of love and deepest
amity filled every heart. The two forces mingling, unarmed and hand in
hand, talking only how each might assist the other, the adversaries
conjoined; each repenting, the one side their former cruelties, the
other their late violence, they obeyed the orders of the General to
proceed towards London.
Adrian was obliged to exert his utmost prudence, first to allay the
discord, and then to provide for the multitude of the invaders. They
were marched to various parts of the southern counties, quartered in
deserted villages,—a part were sent back to their own island, while the
season of winter so far revived our energy, that the passes of the
country were defended, and any increase of numbers prohibited.
On this occasion Adrian and Idris met after a separation of nearly a
year. Adrian had been occupied in fulfilling a laborious and painful
task. He had been familiar with every species of human misery, and had
for ever found his powers inadequate, his aid of small avail. Yet the
purpose of his soul, his energy and ardent resolution, prevented any
re-action of sorrow. He seemed born anew, and virtue, more potent than
Medean alchemy, endued him with health and strength. Idris hardly
recognized the fragile being, whose form had seemed to bend even to the
summer breeze, in the energetic man, whose very excess of sensibility
rendered him more capable of fulfilling his station of pilot in
storm-tossed England.
It was not thus with Idris. She was uncomplaining; but the very soul of
fear had taken its seat in her heart. She had grown thin and pale, her
eyes filled with involuntary tears, her voice was broken and low. She
tried to throw a veil over the change which she knew her brother must
observe in her, but the effort was ineffectual; and when alone with
him, with a burst of irrepressible grief she gave vent to her
apprehensions and sorrow. She described in vivid terms the ceaseless
care that with still renewing hunger ate into her soul; she compared
this gnawing of sleepless expectation of evil, to the vulture that fed
on the heart of Prometheus; under the influence of this eternal
excitement, and of the interminable struggles she endured to combat and
conceal it, she felt, she said, as if all the wheels and springs of the
animal machine worked at double rate, and were fast consuming
themselves. Sleep was not sleep, for her waking thoughts, bridled by
some remains of reason, and by the sight of her children happy and in
health, were then transformed to wild dreams, all her terrors were
realized, all her fears received their dread fulfilment. To this state
there was no hope, no alleviation, unless the grave should quickly
receive its destined prey, and she be permitted to die, before she
experienced a thousand living deaths in the loss of those she loved.
Fearing to give me pain, she hid as best she could the excess of her
wretchedness, but meeting thus her brother after a long absence, she
could not restrain the expression of her woe, but with all the
vividness of imagination with which misery is always replete, she
poured out the emotions of her heart to her beloved and sympathizing
Adrian.
Her present visit to London tended to augment her state of inquietude,
by shewing in its utmost extent the ravages occasioned by pestilence.
It hardly preserved the appearance of an inhabited city; grass sprung
up thick in the streets; the squares were weed-grown, the houses were
shut up, while silence and loneliness characterized the busiest parts
of the town. Yet in the midst of desolation Adrian had preserved order;
and each one continued to live according to law and custom—human
institutions thus surviving as it were divine ones, and while the
decree of population was abrogated, property continued sacred. It was a
melancholy reflection; and in spite of the diminution of evil produced,
it struck on the heart as a wretched mockery. All idea of resort for
pleasure, of theatres and festivals had passed away. “Next summer,”
said Adrian as we parted on our return to Windsor, “will decide the
fate of the human race. I shall not pause in my exertions until that
time; but, if plague revives with the coming year, all contest with her
must cease, and our only occupation be the choice of a grave.”
I must not forget one incident that occurred during this visit to
London. The visits of Merrival to Windsor, before frequent, had
suddenly ceased. At this time where but a hair’s line separated the
living from the dead, I feared that our friend had become a victim to
the all-embracing evil. On this occasion I went, dreading the worst, to
his dwelling, to see if I could be of any service to those of his
family who might have survived. The house was deserted, and had been
one of those assigned to the invading strangers quartered in London. I
saw his astronomical instruments put to strange uses, his globes
defaced, his papers covered with abstruse calculations destroyed. The
neighbours could tell me little, till I lighted on a poor woman who
acted as nurse in these perilous times. She told me that all the family
were dead, except Merrival himself, who had gone mad— mad, she called
it, yet on questioning her further, it appeared that he was possessed
only by the delirium of excessive grief. This old man, tottering on the
edge of the grave, and prolonging his prospect through millions of
calculated years,—this visionary who had not seen starvation in the
wasted forms of his wife and children, or plague in the horrible sights
and sounds that surrounded him—this astronomer, apparently dead on
earth, and living only in the motion of the spheres—loved his family
with unapparent but intense affection. Through long habit they had
become a part of himself; his want of worldly knowledge, his absence of
mind and infant guilelessness, made him utterly dependent on them. It
was not till one of them died that he perceived their danger; one by
one they were carried off by pestilence; and his wife, his helpmate and
supporter, more necessary to him than his own limbs and frame, which
had hardly been taught the lesson of self-preservation, the kind
companion whose voice always spoke peace to him, closed her eyes in
death. The old man felt the system of universal nature which he had so
long studied and adored, slide from under him, and he stood among the
dead, and lifted his voice in curses.—No wonder that the attendant
should interpret as phrensy the harrowing maledictions of the
grief-struck old man.
I had commenced my search late in the day, a November day, that closed
in early with pattering rain and melancholy wind. As I turned from the
door, I saw Merrival, or rather the shadow of Merrival, attenuated and
wild, pass me, and sit on the steps of his home. The breeze scattered
the grey locks on his temples, the rain drenched his uncovered head, he
sat hiding his face in his withered hands. I pressed his shoulder to
awaken his attention, but he did not alter his position. “Merrival,” I
said, “it is long since we have seen you—you must return to Windsor
with me—Lady Idris desires to see you, you will not refuse her
request—come home with me.”
He replied in a hollow voice, “Why deceive a helpless old man, why talk
hypocritically to one half crazed? Windsor is not my home; my true home
I have found; the home that the Creator has prepared for me.”
His accent of bitter scorn thrilled me—“Do not tempt me to speak,” he
continued, “my words would scare you—in an universe of cowards I dare
think—among the church-yard tombs—among the victims of His merciless
tyranny I dare reproach the Supreme Evil. How can he punish me? Let him
bare his arm and transfix me with lightning—this is also one of his
attributes”—and the old man laughed.
He rose, and I followed him through the rain to a neighbouring
church-yard —he threw himself on the wet earth. “Here they are,” he
cried, “beautiful creatures—breathing, speaking, loving creatures. She
who by day and night cherished the age-worn lover of her youth—they,
parts of my flesh, my children—here they are: call them, scream their
names through the night; they will not answer!” He clung to the little
heaps that marked the graves. “I ask but one thing; I do not fear His
hell, for I have it here; I do not desire His heaven, let me but die
and be laid beside them; let me but, when I lie dead, feel my flesh as
it moulders, mingle with theirs. Promise,” and he raised himself
painfully, and seized my arm, “promise to bury me with them.”
“So God help me and mine as I promise,” I replied, “on one condition:
return with me to Windsor.”
“To Windsor!” he cried with a shriek, “Never!—from this place I never
go —my bones, my flesh, I myself, are already buried here, and what you
see of me is corrupted clay like them. I will lie here, and cling here,
till rain, and hail, and lightning and storm, ruining on me, make me
one in substance with them below.”
In a few words I must conclude this tragedy. I was obliged to leave
London, and Adrian undertook to watch over him; the task was soon
fulfilled; age, grief, and inclement weather, all united to hush his
sorrows, and bring repose to his heart, whose beats were agony. He died
embracing the sod, which was piled above his breast, when he was placed
beside the beings whom he regretted with such wild despair.
I returned to Windsor at the wish of Idris, who seemed to think that
there was greater safety for her children at that spot; and because,
once having taken on me the guardianship of the district, I would not
desert it while an inhabitant survived. I went also to act in
conformity with Adrian’s plans, which was to congregate in masses what
remained of the population; for he possessed the conviction that it was
only through the benevolent and social virtues that any safety was to
be hoped for the remnant of mankind.
It was a melancholy thing to return to this spot so dear to us, as the
scene of a happiness rarely before enjoyed, here to mark the extinction
of our species, and trace the deep uneraseable footsteps of disease
over the fertile and cherished soil. The aspect of the country had so
far changed, that it had been impossible to enter on the task of sowing
seed, and other autumnal labours. That season was now gone; and winter
had set in with sudden and unusual severity. Alternate frosts and thaws
succeeding to floods, rendered the country impassable. Heavy falls of
snow gave an arctic appearance to the scenery; the roofs of the houses
peeped from the white mass; the lowly cot and stately mansion, alike
deserted, were blocked up, their thresholds uncleared; the windows were
broken by the hail, while the prevalence of a north-east wind rendered
out-door exertions extremely painful. The altered state of society made
these accidents of nature, sources of real misery. The luxury of
command and the attentions of servitude were lost. It is true that the
necessaries of life were assembled in such quantities, as to supply to
superfluity the wants of the diminished population; but still much
labour was required to arrange these, as it were, raw materials; and
depressed by sickness, and fearful of the future, we had not energy to
enter boldly and decidedly on any system.
I can speak for myself—want of energy was not my failing. The intense
life that quickened my pulses, and animated my frame, had the effect,
not of drawing me into the mazes of active life, but of exalting my
lowliness, and of bestowing majestic proportions on insignificant
objects—I could have lived the life of a peasant in the same way—my
trifling occupations were swelled into important pursuits; my
affections were impetuous and engrossing passions, and nature with all
her changes was invested in divine attributes. The very spirit of the
Greek mythology inhabited my heart; I deified the uplands, glades, and
streams, I
Had sight of Proteus coming from the sea;
And heard old Triton blow his wreathed horn.[16]
Strange, that while the earth preserved her monotonous course, I dwelt
with ever-renewing wonder on her antique laws, and now that with
excentric wheel she rushed into an untried path, I should feel this
spirit fade; I struggled with despondency and weariness, but like a
fog, they choked me. Perhaps, after the labours and stupendous
excitement of the past summer, the calm of winter and the almost menial
toils it brought with it, were by natural re-action doubly irksome. It
was not the grasping passion of the preceding year, which gave life and
individuality to each moment—it was not the aching pangs induced by the
distresses of the times. The utter inutility that had attended all my
exertions took from them their usual effects of exhilaration, and
despair rendered abortive the balm of self applause—I longed to return
to my old occupations, but of what use were they? To read were
futile—to write, vanity indeed. The earth, late wide circus for the
display of dignified exploits, vast theatre for a magnificent drama,
now presented a vacant space, an empty stage—for actor or spectator
there was no longer aught to say or hear.
Our little town of Windsor, in which the survivors from the
neighbouring counties were chiefly assembled, wore a melancholy aspect.
Its streets were blocked up with snow—the few passengers seemed
palsied, and frozen by the ungenial visitation of winter. To escape
these evils was the aim and scope of all our exertions. Families late
devoted to exalting and refined pursuits, rich, blooming, and young,
with diminished numbers and care-fraught hearts, huddled over a fire,
grown selfish and grovelling through suffering. Without the aid of
servants, it was necessary to discharge all household duties; hands
unused to such labour must knead the bread, or in the absence of flour,
the statesmen or perfumed courtier must undertake the butcher’s office.
Poor and rich were now equal, or rather the poor were the superior,
since they entered on such tasks with alacrity and experience; while
ignorance, inaptitude, and habits of repose, rendered them fatiguing to
the luxurious, galling to the proud, disgustful to all whose minds,
bent on intellectual improvement, held it their dearest privilege to be
exempt from attending to mere animal wants.
But in every change goodness and affection can find field for exertion
and display. Among some these changes produced a devotion and sacrifice
of self at once graceful and heroic. It was a sight for the lovers of
the human race to enjoy; to behold, as in ancient times, the
patriarchal modes in which the variety of kindred and friendship
fulfilled their duteous and kindly offices. Youths, nobles of the land,
performed for the sake of mother or sister, the services of menials
with amiable cheerfulness. They went to the river to break the ice, and
draw water: they assembled on foraging expeditions, or axe in hand
felled the trees for fuel. The females received them on their return
with the simple and affectionate welcome known before only to the lowly
cottage—a clean hearth and bright fire; the supper ready cooked by
beloved hands; gratitude for the provision for to-morrow’s meal:
strange enjoyments for the high-born English, yet they were now their
sole, hard earned, and dearly prized luxuries.
None was more conspicuous for this graceful submission to
circumstances, noble humility, and ingenious fancy to adorn such acts
with romantic colouring, than our own Clara. She saw my despondency,
and the aching cares of Idris. Her perpetual study was to relieve us
from labour and to spread ease and even elegance over our altered mode
of life. We still had some attendants spared by disease, and warmly
attached to us. But Clara was jealous of their services; she would be
sole handmaid of Idris, sole minister to the wants of her little
cousins; nothing gave her so much pleasure as our employing her in this
way; she went beyond our desires, earnest, diligent, and unwearied,—
Abra was ready ere we called her name,
And though we called another, Abra came.[17]
It was my task each day to visit the various families assembled in our
town, and when the weather permitted, I was glad to prolong my ride,
and to muse in solitude over every changeful appearance of our destiny,
endeavouring to gather lessons for the future from the experience of
the past. The impatience with which, while in society, the ills that
afflicted my species inspired me, were softened by loneliness, when
individual suffering was merged in the general calamity, strange to
say, less afflicting to contemplate. Thus often, pushing my way with
difficulty through the narrow snow-blocked town, I crossed the bridge
and passed through Eton. No youthful congregation of gallant-hearted
boys thronged the portal of the college; sad silence pervaded the busy
school-room and noisy playground. I extended my ride towards Salt Hill,
on every side impeded by the snow. Were those the fertile fields I
loved—was that the interchange of gentle upland and cultivated dale,
once covered with waving corn, diversified by stately trees, watered by
the meandering Thames? One sheet of white covered it, while bitter
recollection told me that cold as the winter-clothed earth, were the
hearts of the inhabitants. I met troops of horses, herds of cattle,
flocks of sheep, wandering at will; here throwing down a hay-rick, and
nestling from cold in its heart, which afforded them shelter and
food—there having taken possession of a vacant cottage. Once on a
frosty day, pushed on by restless unsatisfying reflections, I sought a
favourite haunt, a little wood not far distant from Salt Hill. A
bubbling spring prattles over stones on one side, and a plantation of a
few elms and beeches, hardly deserve, and yet continue the name of
wood. This spot had for me peculiar charms. It had been a favourite
resort of Adrian; it was secluded; and he often said that in boyhood,
his happiest hours were spent here; having escaped the stately bondage
of his mother, he sat on the rough hewn steps that led to the spring,
now reading a favourite book, now musing, with speculation beyond his
years, on the still unravelled skein of morals or metaphysics. A
melancholy foreboding assured me that I should never see this place
more; so with careful thought, I noted each tree, every winding of the
streamlet and irregularity of the soil, that I might better call up its
idea in absence. A robin red-breast dropt from the frosty branches of
the trees, upon the congealed rivulet; its panting breast and
half-closed eyes shewed that it was dying: a hawk appeared in the air;
sudden fear seized the little creature; it exerted its last strength,
throwing itself on its back, raising its talons in impotent defence
against its powerful enemy. I took it up and placed it in my breast. I
fed it with a few crumbs from a biscuit; by degrees it revived; its
warm fluttering heart beat against me; I cannot tell why I detail this
trifling incident—but the scene is still before me; the snow-clad
fields seen through the silvered trunks of the beeches,—the brook, in
days of happiness alive with sparkling waters, now choked by ice—the
leafless trees fantastically dressed in hoar frost—the shapes of summer
leaves imaged by winter’s frozen hand on the hard ground—the dusky sky,
drear cold, and unbroken silence—while close in my bosom, my feathered
nursling lay warm, and safe, speaking its content with a light chirp—
painful reflections thronged, stirring my brain with wild
commotion—cold and death-like as the snowy fields was all
earth—misery-stricken the life-tide of the inhabitants—why should I
oppose the cataract of destruction that swept us away?—why string my
nerves and renew my wearied efforts—ah, why? But that my firm courage
and cheerful exertions might shelter the dear mate, whom I chose in the
spring of my life; though the throbbings of my heart be replete with
pain, though my hopes for the future are chill, still while your dear
head, my gentlest love, can repose in peace on that heart, and while
you derive from its fostering care, comfort, and hope, my struggles
shall not cease,—I will not call myself altogether vanquished.
One fine February day, when the sun had reassumed some of its genial
power, I walked in the forest with my family. It was one of those
lovely winter-days which assert the capacity of nature to bestow beauty
on barrenness. The leafless trees spread their fibrous branches against
the pure sky; their intricate and pervious tracery resembled delicate
sea-weed; the deer were turning up the snow in search of the hidden
grass; the white was made intensely dazzling by the sun, and trunks of
the trees, rendered more conspicuous by the loss of preponderating
foliage, gathered around like the labyrinthine columns of a vast
temple; it was impossible not to receive pleasure from the sight of
these things. Our children, freed from the bondage of winter, bounded
before us; pursuing the deer, or rousing the pheasants and partridges
from their coverts. Idris leant on my arm; her sadness yielded to the
present sense of pleasure. We met other families on the Long Walk,
enjoying like ourselves the return of the genial season. At once, I
seemed to awake; I cast off the clinging sloth of the past months;
earth assumed a new appearance, and my view of the future was suddenly
made clear. I exclaimed, “I have now found out the secret!”
“What secret?”
In answer to this question, I described our gloomy winter-life, our
sordid cares, our menial labours:—“This northern country,” I said, “is
no place for our diminished race. When mankind were few, it was not
here that they battled with the powerful agents of nature, and were
enabled to cover the globe with offspring. We must seek some natural
Paradise, some garden of the earth, where our simple wants may be
easily supplied, and the enjoyment of a delicious climate compensate
for the social pleasures we have lost. If we survive this coming
summer, I will not spend the ensuing winter in England; neither I nor
any of us.”
I spoke without much heed, and the very conclusion of what I said
brought with it other thoughts. Should we, any of us, survive the
coming summer? I saw the brow of Idris clouded; I again felt, that we
were enchained to the car of fate, over whose coursers we had no
control. We could no longer say, This we will do, and this we will
leave undone. A mightier power than the human was at hand to destroy
our plans or to achieve the work we avoided. It were madness to
calculate upon another winter. This was our last. The coming summer was
the extreme end of our vista; and, when we arrived there, instead of a
continuation of the long road, a gulph yawned, into which we must of
force be precipitated. The last blessing of humanity was wrested from
us; we might no longer hope. Can the madman, as he clanks his chains,
hope? Can the wretch, led to the scaffold, who when he lays his head on
the block, marks the double shadow of himself and the executioner,
whose uplifted arm bears the axe, hope? Can the ship-wrecked mariner,
who spent with swimming, hears close behind the splashing waters
divided by a shark which pursues him through the Atlantic, hope? Such
hope as theirs, we also may entertain!
Old fable tells us, that this gentle spirit sprung from the box of
Pandora, else crammed with evils; but these were unseen and null, while
all admired the inspiriting loveliness of young Hope; each man’s heart
became her home; she was enthroned sovereign of our lives, here and
here-after; she was deified and worshipped, declared incorruptible and
everlasting. But like all other gifts of the Creator to Man, she is
mortal; her life has attained its last hour. We have watched over her;
nursed her flickering existence; now she has fallen at once from youth
to decrepitude, from health to immedicinable disease; even as we spend
ourselves in struggles for her recovery, she dies; to all nations the
voice goes forth, Hope is dead! We are but mourners in the funeral
train, and what immortal essence or perishable creation will refuse to
make one in the sad procession that attends to its grave the dead
comforter of humanity?
Does not the sun call in his light? and day
Like a thin exhalation melt away—
Both wrapping up their beams in clouds to be
Themselves close mourners at this obsequie.[18]
[16] Wordsworth.
[17] Prior’s “Solomon.”
[18] Cleveland’s Poems.
VOL. III.
CHAPTER I.
Hear you not the rushing sound of the coming tempest? Do you not behold
the clouds open, and destruction lurid and dire pour down on the
blasted earth? See you not the thunderbolt fall, and are deafened by
the shout of heaven that follows its descent? Feel you not the earth
quake and open with agonizing groans, while the air is pregnant with
shrieks and wailings,— all announcing the last days of man? No! none of
these things accompanied our fall! The balmy air of spring, breathed
from nature’s ambrosial home, invested the lovely earth, which wakened
as a young mother about to lead forth in pride her beauteous offspring
to meet their sire who had been long absent. The buds decked the trees,
the flowers adorned the land: the dark branches, swollen with
seasonable juices, expanded into leaves, and the variegated foliage of
spring, bending and singing in the breeze, rejoiced in the genial
warmth of the unclouded empyrean: the brooks flowed murmuring, the sea
was waveless, and the promontories that over-hung it were reflected in
the placid waters; birds awoke in the woods, while abundant food for
man and beast sprung up from the dark ground. Where was pain and evil?
Not in the calm air or weltering ocean; not in the woods or fertile
fields, nor among the birds that made the woods resonant with song, nor
the animals that in the midst of plenty basked in the sunshine. Our
enemy, like the Calamity of Homer, trod our hearts, and no sound was
echoed from her steps—
With ills the land is rife, with ills the sea,
Diseases haunt our frail humanity,
Through noon, through night, on casual wing they glide,
Silent,—a voice the power all-wise denied.[19]
Once man was a favourite of the Creator, as the royal psalmist sang,
“God had made him a little lower than the angels, and had crowned him
with glory and honour. God made him to have dominion over the works of
his hands, and put all things under his feet.” Once it was so; now is
man lord of the creation? Look at him—ha! I see plague! She has
invested his form, is incarnate in his flesh, has entwined herself with
his being, and blinds his heaven-seeking eyes. Lie down, O man, on the
flower-strown earth; give up all claim to your inheritance, all you can
ever possess of it is the small cell which the dead require. Plague is
the companion of spring, of sunshine, and plenty. We no longer struggle
with her. We have forgotten what we did when she was not. Of old navies
used to stem the giant ocean-waves betwixt Indus and the Pole for
slight articles of luxury. Men made perilous journies to possess
themselves of earth’s splendid trifles, gems and gold. Human labour was
wasted—human life set at nought. Now life is all that we covet; that
this automaton of flesh should, with joints and springs in order,
perform its functions, that this dwelling of the soul should be capable
of containing its dweller. Our minds, late spread abroad through
countless spheres and endless combinations of thought, now retrenched
themselves behind this wall of flesh, eager to preserve its well-being
only. We were surely sufficiently degraded.
At first the increase of sickness in spring brought increase of toil to
such of us, who, as yet spared to life, bestowed our time and thoughts
on our fellow creatures. We nerved ourselves to the task: “in the midst
of despair we performed the tasks of hope.” We went out with the
resolution of disputing with our foe. We aided the sick, and comforted
the sorrowing; turning from the multitudinous dead to the rare
survivors, with an energy of desire that bore the resemblance of power,
we bade them—live. Plague sat paramount the while, and laughed us to
scorn.
Have any of you, my readers, observed the ruins of an anthill
immediately after its destruction? At first it appears entirely
deserted of its former inhabitants; in a little time you see an ant
struggling through the upturned mould; they reappear by twos and
threes, running hither and thither in search of their lost companions.
Such were we upon earth, wondering aghast at the effects of pestilence.
Our empty habitations remained, but the dwellers were gathered to the
shades of the tomb.
As the rules of order and pressure of laws were lost, some began with
hesitation and wonder to transgress the accustomed uses of society.
Palaces were deserted, and the poor man dared at length, unreproved,
intrude into the splendid apartments, whose very furniture and
decorations were an unknown world to him. It was found, that, though at
first the stop put to all circulation of property, had reduced those
before supported by the factitious wants of society to sudden and
hideous poverty, yet when the boundaries of private possession were
thrown down, the products of human labour at present existing were
more, far more, than the thinned generation could possibly consume. To
some among the poor this was matter of exultation. We were all equal
now; magnificent dwellings, luxurious carpets, and beds of down, were
afforded to all. Carriages and horses, gardens, pictures, statues, and
princely libraries, there were enough of these even to superfluity; and
there was nothing to prevent each from assuming possession of his
share. We were all equal now; but near at hand was an equality still
more levelling, a state where beauty and strength, and wisdom, would be
as vain as riches and birth. The grave yawned beneath us all, and its
prospect prevented any of us from enjoying the ease and plenty which in
so awful a manner was presented to us.
Still the bloom did not fade on the cheeks of my babes; and Clara
sprung up in years and growth, unsullied by disease. We had no reason
to think the site of Windsor Castle peculiarly healthy, for many other
families had expired beneath its roof; we lived therefore without any
particular precaution; but we lived, it seemed, in safety. If Idris
became thin and pale, it was anxiety that occasioned the change; an
anxiety I could in no way alleviate. She never complained, but sleep
and appetite fled from her, a slow fever preyed on her veins, her
colour was hectic, and she often wept in secret; gloomy
prognostications, care, and agonizing dread, ate up the principle of
life within her. I could not fail to perceive this change. I often
wished that I had permitted her to take her own course, and engage
herself in such labours for the welfare of others as might have
distracted her thoughts. But it was too late now. Besides that, with
the nearly extinct race of man, all our toils grew near a conclusion,
she was too weak; consumption, if so it might be called, or rather the
over active life within her, which, as with Adrian, spent the vital oil
in the early morning hours, deprived her limbs of strength. At night,
when she could leave me unperceived, she wandered through the house, or
hung over the couches of her children; and in the day time would sink
into a perturbed sleep, while her murmurs and starts betrayed the
unquiet dreams that vexed her. As this state of wretchedness became
more confirmed, and, in spite of her endeavours at concealment more
apparent, I strove, though vainly, to awaken in her courage and hope. I
could not wonder at the vehemence of her care; her very soul was
tenderness; she trusted indeed that she should not outlive me if I
became the prey of the vast calamity, and this thought sometimes
relieved her. We had for many years trod the highway of life hand in
hand, and still thus linked, we might step within the shades of death;
but her children, her lovely, playful, animated children—beings sprung
from her own dear side—portions of her own being—depositories of our
loves—even if we died, it would be comfort to know that they ran man’s
accustomed course. But it would not be so; young and blooming as they
were, they would die, and from the hopes of maturity, from the proud
name of attained manhood, they were cut off for ever. Often with
maternal affection she had figured their merits and talents exerted on
life’s wide stage. Alas for these latter days! The world had grown old,
and all its inmates partook of the decrepitude. Why talk of infancy,
manhood, and old age? We all stood equal sharers of the last throes of
time-worn nature. Arrived at the same point of the world’s age—there
was no difference in us; the name of parent and child had lost their
meaning; young boys and girls were level now with men. This was all
true; but it was not less agonizing to take the admonition home.
Where could we turn, and not find a desolation pregnant with the dire
lesson of example? The fields had been left uncultivated, weeds and
gaudy flowers sprung up,—or where a few wheat-fields shewed signs of
the living hopes of the husbandman, the work had been left halfway, the
ploughman had died beside the plough; the horses had deserted the
furrow, and no seedsman had approached the dead; the cattle unattended
wandered over the fields and through the lanes; the tame inhabitants of
the poultry yard, baulked of their daily food, had become wild—young
lambs were dropt in flower-gardens, and the cow stalled in the hall of
pleasure. Sickly and few, the country people neither went out to sow
nor reap; but sauntered about the meadows, or lay under the hedges,
when the inclement sky did not drive them to take shelter under the
nearest roof. Many of those who remained, secluded themselves; some had
laid up stores which should prevent the necessity of leaving their
homes;—some deserted wife and child, and imagined that they secured
their safety in utter solitude. Such had been Ryland’s plan, and he was
discovered dead and half-devoured by insects, in a house many miles
from any other, with piles of food laid up in useless superfluity.
Others made long journies to unite themselves to those they loved, and
arrived to find them dead.
London did not contain above a thousand inhabitants; and this number
was continually diminishing. Most of them were country people, come up
for the sake of change; the Londoners had sought the country. The busy
eastern part of the town was silent, or at most you saw only where,
half from cupidity, half from curiosity, the warehouses had been more
ransacked than pillaged: bales of rich India goods, shawls of price,
jewels, and spices, unpacked, strewed the floors. In some places the
possessor had to the last kept watch on his store, and died before the
barred gates. The massy portals of the churches swung creaking on their
hinges; and some few lay dead on the pavement. The wretched female,
loveless victim of vulgar brutality, had wandered to the toilet of
high-born beauty, and, arraying herself in the garb of splendour, had
died before the mirror which reflected to herself alone her altered
appearance. Women whose delicate feet had seldom touched the earth in
their luxury, had fled in fright and horror from their homes, till,
losing themselves in the squalid streets of the metropolis, they had
died on the threshold of poverty. The heart sickened at the variety of
misery presented; and, when I saw a specimen of this gloomy change, my
soul ached with the fear of what might befall my beloved Idris and my
babes. Were they, surviving Adrian and myself, to find themselves
protectorless in the world? As yet the mind alone had suffered—could I
for ever put off the time, when the delicate frame and shrinking nerves
of my child of prosperity, the nursling of rank and wealth, who was my
companion, should be invaded by famine, hardship, and disease? Better
die at once—better plunge a poinard in her bosom, still untouched by
drear adversity, and then again sheathe it in my own! But, no; in times
of misery we must fight against our destinies, and strive not to be
overcome by them. I would not yield, but to the last gasp resolutely
defended my dear ones against sorrow and pain; and if I were vanquished
at last, it should not be ingloriously. I stood in the gap, resisting
the enemy—the impalpable, invisible foe, who had so long besieged us—as
yet he had made no breach: it must be my care that he should not,
secretly undermining, burst up within the very threshold of the temple
of love, at whose altar I daily sacrificed. The hunger of Death was now
stung more sharply by the diminution of his food: or was it that
before, the survivors being many, the dead were less eagerly counted?
Now each life was a gem, each human breathing form of far, O! far more
worth than subtlest imagery of sculptured stone; and the daily, nay,
hourly decrease visible in our numbers, visited the heart with
sickening misery. This summer extinguished our hopes, the vessel of
society was wrecked, and the shattered raft, which carried the few
survivors over the sea of misery, was riven and tempest tost. Man
existed by twos and threes; man, the individual who might sleep, and
wake, and perform the animal functions; but man, in himself weak, yet
more powerful in congregated numbers than wind or ocean; man, the
queller of the elements, the lord of created nature, the peer of
demi-gods, existed no longer.
Farewell to the patriotic scene, to the love of liberty and well earned
meed of virtuous aspiration!—farewell to crowded senate, vocal with the
councils of the wise, whose laws were keener than the sword blade
tempered at Damascus!—farewell to kingly pomp and warlike pageantry;
the crowns are in the dust, and the wearers are in their
graves!—farewell to the desire of rule, and the hope of victory; to
high vaulting ambition, to the appetite for praise, and the craving for
the suffrage of their fellows! The nations are no longer! No senate
sits in council for the dead; no scion of a time honoured dynasty pants
to rule over the inhabitants of a charnel house; the general’s hand is
cold, and the soldier has his untimely grave dug in his native fields,
unhonoured, though in youth. The market-place is empty, the candidate
for popular favour finds none whom he can represent. To chambers of
painted state farewell!—To midnight revelry, and the panting emulation
of beauty, to costly dress and birth-day shew, to title and the gilded
coronet, farewell!
Farewell to the giant powers of man,—to knowledge that could pilot the
deep-drawing bark through the opposing waters of shoreless ocean,—to
science that directed the silken balloon through the pathless air,—to
the power that could put a barrier to mighty waters, and set in motion
wheels, and beams, and vast machinery, that could divide rocks of
granite or marble, and make the mountains plain!
Farewell to the arts,—to eloquence, which is to the human mind as the
winds to the sea, stirring, and then allaying it;—farewell to poetry
and deep philosophy, for man’s imagination is cold, and his enquiring
mind can no longer expatiate on the wonders of life, for “there is no
work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom in the grave, whither thou
goest!”—to the graceful building, which in its perfect proportion
transcended the rude forms of nature, the fretted gothic and massy
saracenic pile, to the stupendous arch and glorious dome, the fluted
column with its capital, Corinthian, Ionic, or Doric, the peristyle and
fair entablature, whose harmony of form is to the eye as musical
concord to the ear!—farewell to sculpture, where the pure marble mocks
human flesh, and in the plastic expression of the culled excellencies
of the human shape, shines forth the god!—farewell to painting, the
high wrought sentiment and deep knowledge of the artists’s mind in
pictured canvas—to paradisaical scenes, where trees are ever vernal,
and the ambrosial air rests in perpetual glow:—to the stamped form of
tempest, and wildest uproar of universal nature encaged in the narrow
frame, O farewell! Farewell to music, and the sound of song; to the
marriage of instruments, where the concord of soft and harsh unites in
sweet harmony, and gives wings to the panting listeners, whereby to
climb heaven, and learn the hidden pleasures of the eternals!—Farewell
to the well-trod stage; a truer tragedy is enacted on the world’s ample
scene, that puts to shame mimic grief: to high-bred comedy, and the low
buffoon, farewell!—Man may laugh no more. Alas! to enumerate the
adornments of humanity, shews, by what we have lost, how supremely
great man was. It is all over now. He is solitary; like our first
parents expelled from Paradise, he looks back towards the scene he has
quitted. The high walls of the tomb, and the flaming sword of plague,
lie between it and him. Like to our first parents, the whole earth is
before him, a wide desart. Unsupported and weak, let him wander through
fields where the unreaped corn stands in barren plenty, through copses
planted by his fathers, through towns built for his use. Posterity is
no more; fame, and ambition, and love, are words void of meaning; even
as the cattle that grazes in the field, do thou, O deserted one, lie
down at evening-tide, unknowing of the past, careless of the future,
for from such fond ignorance alone canst thou hope for ease!
Joy paints with its own colours every act and thought. The happy do not
feel poverty—for delight is as a gold-tissued robe, and crowns them
with priceless gems. Enjoyment plays the cook to their homely fare, and
mingles intoxication with their simple drink. Joy strews the hard couch
with roses, and makes labour ease.
Sorrow doubles the burthen to the bent-down back; plants thorns in the
unyielding pillow; mingles gall with water; adds saltness to their
bitter bread; cloathing them in rags, and strewing ashes on their bare
heads. To our irremediable distress every small and pelting
inconvenience came with added force; we had strung our frames to endure
the Atlean weight thrown on us; we sank beneath the added feather
chance threw on us, “the grasshopper was a burthen.” Many of the
survivors had been bred in luxury—their servants were gone, their
powers of command vanished like unreal shadows: the poor even suffered
various privations; and the idea of another winter like the last,
brought affright to our minds. Was it not enough that we must die, but
toil must be added?—must we prepare our funeral repast with labour, and
with unseemly drudgery heap fuel on our deserted hearths —must we with
servile hands fabricate the garments, soon to be our shroud?
Not so! We are presently to die, let us then enjoy to its full relish
the remnant of our lives. Sordid care, avaunt! menial labours, and
pains, slight in themselves, but too gigantic for our exhausted
strength, shall make no part of our ephemeral existences. In the
beginning of time, when, as now, man lived by families, and not by
tribes or nations, they were placed in a genial clime, where earth fed
them untilled, and the balmy air enwrapt their reposing limbs with
warmth more pleasant than beds of down. The south is the native place
of the human race; the land of fruits, more grateful to man than the
hard-earned Ceres of the north,—of trees, whose boughs are as a
palace-roof, of couches of roses, and of the thirst-appeasing grape. We
need not there fear cold and hunger.
Look at England! the grass shoots up high in the meadows; but they are
dank and cold, unfit bed for us. Corn we have none, and the crude
fruits cannot support us. We must seek firing in the bowels of the
earth, or the unkind atmosphere will fill us with rheums and aches. The
labour of hundreds of thousands alone could make this inclement nook
fit habitation for one man. To the south then, to the sun!—where nature
is kind, where Jove has showered forth the contents of Amalthea’s horn,
and earth is garden.
England, late birth-place of excellence and school of the wise, thy
children are gone, thy glory faded! Thou, England, wert the triumph of
man! Small favour was shewn thee by thy Creator, thou Isle of the
North; a ragged canvas naturally, painted by man with alien colours;
but the hues he gave are faded, never more to be renewed. So we must
leave thee, thou marvel of the world; we must bid farewell to thy
clouds, and cold, and scarcity for ever! Thy manly hearts are still;
thy tale of power and liberty at its close! Bereft of man, O little
isle! the ocean waves will buffet thee, and the raven flap his wings
over thee; thy soil will be birth-place of weeds, thy sky will canopy
barrenness. It was not for the rose of Persia thou wert famous, nor the
banana of the east; not for the spicy gales of India, nor the sugar
groves of America; not for thy vines nor thy double harvests, nor for
thy vernal airs, nor solstitial sun—but for thy children, their
unwearied industry and lofty aspiration. They are gone, and thou goest
with them the oft trodden path that leads to oblivion, —
Farewell, sad Isle, farewell, thy fatal glory
Is summed, cast up, and cancelled in this story.[20]
[19] Elton’s translation of Hesiod.
[20] Cleveland’s Poems.