The Last Man
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