The Last Man
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,