The Last Man
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