The Last Man
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