The Last Man
hell, for I have it here; I do not desire His heaven, let me but die
and be laid beside them; let me but, when I lie dead, feel my flesh as
it moulders, mingle with theirs. Promise,” and he raised himself
painfully, and seized my arm, “promise to bury me with them.”
“So God help me and mine as I promise,” I replied, “on one condition:
return with me to Windsor.”
“To Windsor!” he cried with a shriek, “Never!—from this place I never
go —my bones, my flesh, I myself, are already buried here, and what you
see of me is corrupted clay like them. I will lie here, and cling here,
till rain, and hail, and lightning and storm, ruining on me, make me
one in substance with them below.”
In a few words I must conclude this tragedy. I was obliged to leave
London, and Adrian undertook to watch over him; the task was soon
fulfilled; age, grief, and inclement weather, all united to hush his
sorrows, and bring repose to his heart, whose beats were agony. He died
embracing the sod, which was piled above his breast, when he was placed
beside the beings whom he regretted with such wild despair.
I returned to Windsor at the wish of Idris, who seemed to think that
there was greater safety for her children at that spot; and because,
once having taken on me the guardianship of the district, I would not
desert it while an inhabitant survived. I went also to act in
conformity with Adrian’s plans, which was to congregate in masses what
remained of the population; for he possessed the conviction that it was
only through the benevolent and social virtues that any safety was to
be hoped for the remnant of mankind.
It was a melancholy thing to return to this spot so dear to us, as the
scene of a happiness rarely before enjoyed, here to mark the extinction
of our species, and trace the deep uneraseable footsteps of disease
over the fertile and cherished soil. The aspect of the country had so
far changed, that it had been impossible to enter on the task of sowing
seed, and other autumnal labours. That season was now gone; and winter
had set in with sudden and unusual severity. Alternate frosts and thaws
succeeding to floods, rendered the country impassable. Heavy falls of
snow gave an arctic appearance to the scenery; the roofs of the houses
peeped from the white mass; the lowly cot and stately mansion, alike
deserted, were blocked up, their thresholds uncleared; the windows were
broken by the hail, while the prevalence of a north-east wind rendered
out-door exertions extremely painful. The altered state of society made
these accidents of nature, sources of real misery. The luxury of
command and the attentions of servitude were lost. It is true that the
necessaries of life were assembled in such quantities, as to supply to
superfluity the wants of the diminished population; but still much
labour was required to arrange these, as it were, raw materials; and
depressed by sickness, and fearful of the future, we had not energy to
enter boldly and decidedly on any system.
I can speak for myself—want of energy was not my failing. The intense
life that quickened my pulses, and animated my frame, had the effect,
not of drawing me into the mazes of active life, but of exalting my
lowliness, and of bestowing majestic proportions on insignificant
objects—I could have lived the life of a peasant in the same way—my
trifling occupations were swelled into important pursuits; my
affections were impetuous and engrossing passions, and nature with all
her changes was invested in divine attributes. The very spirit of the
Greek mythology inhabited my heart; I deified the uplands, glades, and
streams, I
Had sight of Proteus coming from the sea;
And heard old Triton blow his wreathed horn.[16]
Strange, that while the earth preserved her monotonous course, I dwelt
with ever-renewing wonder on her antique laws, and now that with
excentric wheel she rushed into an untried path, I should feel this
spirit fade; I struggled with despondency and weariness, but like a
fog, they choked me. Perhaps, after the labours and stupendous
excitement of the past summer, the calm of winter and the almost menial
toils it brought with it, were by natural re-action doubly irksome. It
was not the grasping passion of the preceding year, which gave life and
individuality to each moment—it was not the aching pangs induced by the
distresses of the times. The utter inutility that had attended all my
exertions took from them their usual effects of exhilaration, and
despair rendered abortive the balm of self applause—I longed to return
to my old occupations, but of what use were they? To read were
futile—to write, vanity indeed. The earth, late wide circus for the
display of dignified exploits, vast theatre for a magnificent drama,
now presented a vacant space, an empty stage—for actor or spectator
there was no longer aught to say or hear.
Our little town of Windsor, in which the survivors from the
neighbouring counties were chiefly assembled, wore a melancholy aspect.
Its streets were blocked up with snow—the few passengers seemed
palsied, and frozen by the ungenial visitation of winter. To escape
these evils was the aim and scope of all our exertions. Families late
devoted to exalting and refined pursuits, rich, blooming, and young,
with diminished numbers and care-fraught hearts, huddled over a fire,
grown selfish and grovelling through suffering. Without the aid of
servants, it was necessary to discharge all household duties; hands
unused to such labour must knead the bread, or in the absence of flour,
the statesmen or perfumed courtier must undertake the butcher’s office.
Poor and rich were now equal, or rather the poor were the superior,
since they entered on such tasks with alacrity and experience; while
ignorance, inaptitude, and habits of repose, rendered them fatiguing to
the luxurious, galling to the proud, disgustful to all whose minds,
bent on intellectual improvement, held it their dearest privilege to be
exempt from attending to mere animal wants.
But in every change goodness and affection can find field for exertion
and display. Among some these changes produced a devotion and sacrifice
of self at once graceful and heroic. It was a sight for the lovers of
the human race to enjoy; to behold, as in ancient times, the
patriarchal modes in which the variety of kindred and friendship
fulfilled their duteous and kindly offices. Youths, nobles of the land,
performed for the sake of mother or sister, the services of menials
with amiable cheerfulness. They went to the river to break the ice, and
draw water: they assembled on foraging expeditions, or axe in hand
felled the trees for fuel. The females received them on their return
with the simple and affectionate welcome known before only to the lowly
cottage—a clean hearth and bright fire; the supper ready cooked by
beloved hands; gratitude for the provision for to-morrow’s meal:
strange enjoyments for the high-born English, yet they were now their
sole, hard earned, and dearly prized luxuries.
None was more conspicuous for this graceful submission to
circumstances, noble humility, and ingenious fancy to adorn such acts
with romantic colouring, than our own Clara. She saw my despondency,
and the aching cares of Idris. Her perpetual study was to relieve us
from labour and to spread ease and even elegance over our altered mode
of life. We still had some attendants spared by disease, and warmly
attached to us. But Clara was jealous of their services; she would be
sole handmaid of Idris, sole minister to the wants of her little
cousins; nothing gave her so much pleasure as our employing her in this
way; she went beyond our desires, earnest, diligent, and unwearied,—
Abra was ready ere we called her name,
And though we called another, Abra came.[17]
It was my task each day to visit the various families assembled in our
town, and when the weather permitted, I was glad to prolong my ride,
and to muse in solitude over every changeful appearance of our destiny,
endeavouring to gather lessons for the future from the experience of
the past. The impatience with which, while in society, the ills that
afflicted my species inspired me, were softened by loneliness, when
individual suffering was merged in the general calamity, strange to
say, less afflicting to contemplate. Thus often, pushing my way with
difficulty through the narrow snow-blocked town, I crossed the bridge
and passed through Eton. No youthful congregation of gallant-hearted
boys thronged the portal of the college; sad silence pervaded the busy
school-room and noisy playground. I extended my ride towards Salt Hill,
on every side impeded by the snow. Were those the fertile fields I
loved—was that the interchange of gentle upland and cultivated dale,
once covered with waving corn, diversified by stately trees, watered by
the meandering Thames? One sheet of white covered it, while bitter
recollection told me that cold as the winter-clothed earth, were the
hearts of the inhabitants. I met troops of horses, herds of cattle,
flocks of sheep, wandering at will; here throwing down a hay-rick, and
nestling from cold in its heart, which afforded them shelter and
food—there having taken possession of a vacant cottage. Once on a
frosty day, pushed on by restless unsatisfying reflections, I sought a
favourite haunt, a little wood not far distant from Salt Hill. A
bubbling spring prattles over stones on one side, and a plantation of a
few elms and beeches, hardly deserve, and yet continue the name of
wood. This spot had for me peculiar charms. It had been a favourite
resort of Adrian; it was secluded; and he often said that in boyhood,
his happiest hours were spent here; having escaped the stately bondage
of his mother, he sat on the rough hewn steps that led to the spring,
now reading a favourite book, now musing, with speculation beyond his
years, on the still unravelled skein of morals or metaphysics. A
melancholy foreboding assured me that I should never see this place
more; so with careful thought, I noted each tree, every winding of the
streamlet and irregularity of the soil, that I might better call up its
idea in absence. A robin red-breast dropt from the frosty branches of
the trees, upon the congealed rivulet; its panting breast and
half-closed eyes shewed that it was dying: a hawk appeared in the air;
sudden fear seized the little creature; it exerted its last strength,
throwing itself on its back, raising its talons in impotent defence
against its powerful enemy. I took it up and placed it in my breast. I
fed it with a few crumbs from a biscuit; by degrees it revived; its
warm fluttering heart beat against me; I cannot tell why I detail this
trifling incident—but the scene is still before me; the snow-clad
fields seen through the silvered trunks of the beeches,—the brook, in
days of happiness alive with sparkling waters, now choked by ice—the
leafless trees fantastically dressed in hoar frost—the shapes of summer
leaves imaged by winter’s frozen hand on the hard ground—the dusky sky,
drear cold, and unbroken silence—while close in my bosom, my feathered
nursling lay warm, and safe, speaking its content with a light chirp—
painful reflections thronged, stirring my brain with wild
commotion—cold and death-like as the snowy fields was all
earth—misery-stricken the life-tide of the inhabitants—why should I
oppose the cataract of destruction that swept us away?—why string my
nerves and renew my wearied efforts—ah, why? But that my firm courage
and cheerful exertions might shelter the dear mate, whom I chose in the
spring of my life; though the throbbings of my heart be replete with
pain, though my hopes for the future are chill, still while your dear
head, my gentlest love, can repose in peace on that heart, and while