The Last Man
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