The Last Man

Contents

VOL. I.

INTRODUCTION.

I visited Naples in the year 1818. On the 8th of December of that year, my
companion and I crossed the Bay, to visit the antiquities which are scattered
on the shores of Baiæ. The translucent and shining waters of the calm sea
covered fragments of old Roman villas, which were interlaced by sea-weed, and
received diamond tints from the chequering of the sun-beams; the blue and
pellucid element was such as Galatea might have skimmed in her car of mother of
pearl; or Cleopatra, more fitly than the Nile, have chosen as the path of her
magic ship. Though it was winter, the atmosphere seemed more appropriate to
early spring; and its genial warmth contributed to inspire those sensations of
placid delight, which are the portion of every traveller, as he lingers, loath
to quit the tranquil bays and radiant promontories of Baiæ.

We visited the so called Elysian Fields and Avernus; and wandered through
various ruined temples, baths, and classic spots; at length we entered the
gloomy cavern of the Cumæan Sibyl. Our Lazzeroni bore flaring torches, which
shone red, and almost dusky, in the murky subterranean passages, whose darkness
thirstily surrounding them, seemed eager to imbibe more and more of the element
of light. We passed by a natural archway, leading to a second gallery, and
enquired, if we could not enter there also. The guides pointed to the
reflection of their torches on the water that paved it, leaving us to form our
own conclusion; but adding it was a pity, for it led to the Sibyl’s Cave.
Our curiosity and enthusiasm were excited by this circumstance, and we insisted
upon attempting the passage. As is usually the case in the prosecution of such
enterprizes, the difficulties decreased on examination. We found, on each side
of the humid pathway, “dry land for the sole of the foot.” At
length we arrived at a large, desert, dark cavern, which the Lazzeroni assured
us was the Sibyl’s Cave. We were sufficiently disappointed—Yet we
examined it with care, as if its blank, rocky walls could still bear trace of
celestial visitant. On one side was a small opening. Whither does this lead? we
asked: can we enter here?—“Questo poi, no,”—said
the wild looking savage, who held the torch; “you can advance but a short
distance, and nobody visits it.”

“Nevertheless, I will try it,” said my companion; “it may
lead to the real cavern. Shall I go alone, or will you accompany me?”

I signified my readiness to proceed, but our guides protested against such a
measure. With great volubility, in their native Neapolitan dialect, with which
we were not very familiar, they told us that there were spectres, that the roof
would fall in, that it was too narrow to admit us, that there was a deep hole
within, filled with water, and we might be drowned. My friend shortened the
harangue, by taking the man’s torch from him; and we proceeded alone.

The passage, which at first scarcely admitted us, quickly grew narrower and
lower; we were almost bent double; yet still we persisted in making our way
through it. At length we entered a wider space, and the low roof heightened;
but, as we congratulated ourselves on this change, our torch was extinguished
by a current of air, and we were left in utter darkness. The guides bring with
them materials for renewing the light, but we had none—our only resource
was to return as we came. We groped round the widened space to find the
entrance, and after a time fancied that we had succeeded. This proved however
to be a second passage, which evidently ascended. It terminated like the
former; though something approaching to a ray, we could not tell whence, shed a
very doubtful twilight in the space. By degrees, our eyes grew somewhat
accustomed to this dimness, and we perceived that there was no direct passage
leading us further; but that it was possible to climb one side of the cavern to
a low arch at top, which promised a more easy path, from whence we now
discovered that this light proceeded. With considerable difficulty we scrambled
up, and came to another passage with still more of illumination, and this led
to another ascent like the former.

After a succession of these, which our resolution alone permitted us to
surmount, we arrived at a wide cavern with an arched dome-like roof. An
aperture in the midst let in the light of heaven; but this was overgrown with
brambles and underwood, which acted as a veil, obscuring the day, and giving a
solemn religious hue to the apartment. It was spacious, and nearly circular,
with a raised seat of stone, about the size of a Grecian couch, at one end. The
only sign that life had been here, was the perfect snow-white skeleton of a
goat, which had probably not perceived the opening as it grazed on the hill
above, and had fallen headlong. Ages perhaps had elapsed since this
catastrophe; and the ruin it had made above, had been repaired by the growth of
vegetation during many hundred summers.

The rest of the furniture of the cavern consisted of piles of leaves, fragments
of bark, and a white filmy substance, resembling the inner part of the green
hood which shelters the grain of the unripe Indian corn. We were fatigued by
our struggles to attain this point, and seated ourselves on the rocky couch,
while the sounds of tinkling sheep-bells, and shout of shepherd-boy, reached us
from above.

At length my friend, who had taken up some of the leaves strewed about,
exclaimed, “This is the Sibyl’s cave; these are Sibylline
leaves.” On examination, we found that all the leaves, bark, and other
substances, were traced with written characters. What appeared to us more
astonishing, was that these writings were expressed in various languages: some
unknown to my companion, ancient Chaldee, and Egyptian hieroglyphics, old as
the Pyramids. Stranger still, some were in modern dialects, English and
Italian. We could make out little by the dim light, but they seemed to contain
prophecies, detailed relations of events but lately passed; names, now well
known, but of modern date; and often exclamations of exultation or woe, of
victory or defeat, were traced on their thin scant pages. This was certainly
the Sibyl’s Cave; not indeed exactly as Virgil describes it; but the
whole of this land had been so convulsed by earthquake and volcano, that the
change was not wonderful, though the traces of ruin were effaced by time; and
we probably owed the preservation of these leaves, to the accident which had
closed the mouth of the cavern, and the swift-growing vegetation which had
rendered its sole opening impervious to the storm. We made a hasty selection of
such of the leaves, whose writing one at least of us could understand; and
then, laden with our treasure, we bade adieu to the dim hypæthric cavern, and
after much difficulty succeeded in rejoining our guides.

During our stay at Naples, we often returned to this cave, sometimes alone,
skimming the sun-lit sea, and each time added to our store. Since that period,
whenever the world’s circumstance has not imperiously called me away, or
the temper of my mind impeded such study, I have been employed in deciphering
these sacred remains. Their meaning, wondrous and eloquent, has often repaid my
toil, soothing me in sorrow, and exciting my imagination to daring flights,
through the immensity of nature and the mind of man. For awhile my labours were
not solitary; but that time is gone; and, with the selected and matchless
companion of my toils, their dearest reward is also lost to me—

Di mie tenere frondi altro lavoro
Credea mostrarte; e qual fero pianeta
Ne’ nvidiò insieme, o mio nobil tesoro?

I present the public with my latest discoveries in the slight Sibylline pages.
Scattered and unconnected as they were, I have been obliged to add links, and
model the work into a consistent form. But the main substance rests on the
truths contained in these poetic rhapsodies, and the divine intuition which the
Cumæan damsel obtained from heaven.

I have often wondered at the subject of her verses, and at the English dress of
the Latin poet. Sometimes I have thought, that, obscure and chaotic as they
are, they owe their present form to me, their decipherer. As if we should give
to another artist, the painted fragments which form the mosaic copy of
Raphael’s Transfiguration in St. Peter’s; he would put them
together in a form, whose mode would be fashioned by his own peculiar mind and
talent. Doubtless the leaves of the Cumæan Sibyl have suffered distortion and
diminution of interest and excellence in my hands. My only excuse for thus
transforming them, is that they were unintelligible in their pristine
condition.

My labours have cheered long hours of solitude, and taken me out of a world,
which has averted its once benignant face from me, to one glowing with
imagination and power. Will my readers ask how I could find solace from the
narration of misery and woeful change? This is one of the mysteries of our
nature, which holds full sway over me, and from whose influence I cannot
escape. I confess, that I have not been unmoved by the development of the tale;
and that I have been depressed, nay, agonized, at some parts of the recital,
which I have faithfully transcribed from my materials. Yet such is human
nature, that the excitement of mind was dear to me, and that the imagination,
painter of tempest and earthquake, or, worse, the stormy and ruin-fraught
passions of man, softened my real sorrows and endless regrets, by clothing
these fictitious ones in that ideality, which takes the mortal sting from pain.

I hardly know whether this apology is necessary. For the merits of my
adaptation and translation must decide how far I have well bestowed my time and
imperfect powers, in giving form and substance to the frail and attenuated
Leaves of the Sibyl.

CHAPTER I.

I am the native of a sea-surrounded nook, a cloud-enshadowed land, which, when
the surface of the globe, with its shoreless ocean and trackless continents,
presents itself to my mind, appears only as an inconsiderable speck in the
immense whole; and yet, when balanced in the scale of mental power, far
outweighed countries of larger extent and more numerous population. So true it
is, that man’s mind alone was the creator of all that was good or great
to man, and that Nature herself was only his first minister. England, seated
far north in the turbid sea, now visits my dreams in the semblance of a vast
and well-manned ship, which mastered the winds and rode proudly over the waves.
In my boyish days she was the universe to me. When I stood on my native hills,
and saw plain and mountain stretch out to the utmost limits of my vision,
speckled by the dwellings of my countrymen, and subdued to fertility by their
labours, the earth’s very centre was fixed for me in that spot, and the
rest of her orb was as a fable, to have forgotten which would have cost neither
my imagination nor understanding an effort.

My fortunes have been, from the beginning, an exemplification of the power that
mutability may possess over the varied tenor of man’s life. With regard
to myself, this came almost by inheritance. My father was one of those men on
whom nature had bestowed to prodigality the envied gifts of wit and
imagination, and then left his bark of life to be impelled by these winds,
without adding reason as the rudder, or judgment as the pilot for the voyage.
His extraction was obscure; but circumstances brought him early into public
notice, and his small paternal property was soon dissipated in the splendid
scene of fashion and luxury in which he was an actor. During the short years of
thoughtless youth, he was adored by the high-bred triflers of the day, nor
least by the youthful sovereign, who escaped from the intrigues of party, and
the arduous duties of kingly business, to find never-failing amusement and
exhilaration of spirit in his society. My father’s impulses, never under
his own controul, perpetually led him into difficulties from which his
ingenuity alone could extricate him; and the accumulating pile of debts of
honour and of trade, which would have bent to earth any other, was supported by
him with a light spirit and tameless hilarity; while his company was so
necessary at the tables and assemblies of the rich, that his derelictions were
considered venial, and he himself received with intoxicating flattery.

This kind of popularity, like every other, is evanescent: and the difficulties
of every kind with which he had to contend, increased in a frightful ratio
compared with his small means of extricating himself. At such times the king,
in his enthusiasm for him, would come to his relief, and then kindly take his
friend to task; my father gave the best promises for amendment, but his social
disposition, his craving for the usual diet of admiration, and more than all,
the fiend of gambling, which fully possessed him, made his good resolutions
transient, his promises vain. With the quick sensibility peculiar to his
temperament, he perceived his power in the brilliant circle to be on the wane.
The king married; and the haughty princess of Austria, who became, as queen of
England, the head of fashion, looked with harsh eyes on his defects, and with
contempt on the affection her royal husband entertained for him. My father felt
that his fall was near; but so far from profiting by this last calm before the
storm to save himself, he sought to forget anticipated evil by making still
greater sacrifices to the deity of pleasure, deceitful and cruel arbiter of his
destiny.

The king, who was a man of excellent dispositions, but easily led, had now
become a willing disciple of his imperious consort. He was induced to look with
extreme disapprobation, and at last with distaste, on my father’s
imprudence and follies. It is true that his presence dissipated these clouds;
his warm-hearted frankness, brilliant sallies, and confiding demeanour were
irresistible: it was only when at a distance, while still renewed tales of his
errors were poured into his royal friend’s ear, that he lost his
influence. The queen’s dextrous management was employed to prolong these
absences, and gather together accusations. At length the king was brought to
see in him a source of perpetual disquiet, knowing that he should pay for the
short-lived pleasure of his society by tedious homilies, and more painful
narrations of excesses, the truth of which he could not disprove. The result
was, that he would make one more attempt to reclaim him, and in case of ill
success, cast him off for ever.

Such a scene must have been one of deepest interest and high-wrought passion. A
powerful king, conspicuous for a goodness which had heretofore made him meek,
and now lofty in his admonitions, with alternate entreaty and reproof, besought
his friend to attend to his real interests, resolutely to avoid those
fascinations which in fact were fast deserting him, and to spend his great
powers on a worthy field, in which he, his sovereign, would be his prop, his
stay, and his pioneer. My father felt this kindness; for a moment ambitious
dreams floated before him; and he thought that it would be well to exchange his
present pursuits for nobler duties. With sincerity and fervour he gave the
required promise: as a pledge of continued favour, he received from his royal
master a sum of money to defray pressing debts, and enable him to enter under
good auspices his new career. That very night, while yet full of gratitude and
good resolves, this whole sum, and its amount doubled, was lost at the
gaming-table. In his desire to repair his first losses, my father risked double
stakes, and thus incurred a debt of honour he was wholly unable to pay. Ashamed
to apply again to the king, he turned his back upon London, its false delights
and clinging miseries; and, with poverty for his sole companion, buried himself
in solitude among the hills and lakes of Cumberland. His wit, his bon mots, the
record of his personal attractions, fascinating manners, and social talents,
were long remembered and repeated from mouth to mouth. Ask where now was this
favourite of fashion, this companion of the noble, this excelling beam, which
gilt with alien splendour the assemblies of the courtly and the gay—you
heard that he was under a cloud, a lost man; not one thought it belonged to him
to repay pleasure by real services, or that his long reign of brilliant wit
deserved a pension on retiring. The king lamented his absence; he loved to
repeat his sayings, relate the adventures they had had together, and exalt his
talents—but here ended his reminiscence.

Meanwhile my father, forgotten, could not forget. He repined for the loss of
what was more necessary to him than air or food—the excitements of
pleasure, the admiration of the noble, the luxurious and polished living of the
great. A nervous fever was the consequence; during which he was nursed by the
daughter of a poor cottager, under whose roof he lodged. She was lovely,
gentle, and, above all, kind to him; nor can it afford astonishment, that the
late idol of high-bred beauty should, even in a fallen state, appear a being of
an elevated and wondrous nature to the lowly cottage-girl. The attachment
between them led to the ill-fated marriage, of which I was the offspring.
Notwithstanding the tenderness and sweetness of my mother, her husband still
deplored his degraded state. Unaccustomed to industry, he knew not in what way
to contribute to the support of his increasing family. Sometimes he thought of
applying to the king; pride and shame for a while withheld him; and, before his
necessities became so imperious as to compel him to some kind of exertion, he
died. For one brief interval before this catastrophe, he looked forward to the
future, and contemplated with anguish the desolate situation in which his wife
and children would be left. His last effort was a letter to the king, full of
touching eloquence, and of occasional flashes of that brilliant spirit which
was an integral part of him. He bequeathed his widow and orphans to the
friendship of his royal master, and felt satisfied that, by this means, their
prosperity was better assured in his death than in his life. This letter was
enclosed to the care of a nobleman, who, he did not doubt, would perform the
last and inexpensive office of placing it in the king’s own hand.

He died in debt, and his little property was seized immediately by his
creditors. My mother, pennyless and burthened with two children, waited week
after week, and month after month, in sickening expectation of a reply, which
never came. She had no experience beyond her father’s cottage; and the
mansion of the lord of the manor was the chiefest type of grandeur she could
conceive. During my father’s life, she had been made familiar with the
name of royalty and the courtly circle; but such things, ill according with her
personal experience, appeared, after the loss of him who gave substance and
reality to them, vague and fantastical. If, under any circumstances, she could
have acquired sufficient courage to address the noble persons mentioned by her
husband, the ill success of his own application caused her to banish the idea.
She saw therefore no escape from dire penury: perpetual care, joined to sorrow
for the loss of the wondrous being, whom she continued to contemplate with
ardent admiration, hard labour, and naturally delicate health, at length
released her from the sad continuity of want and misery.

The condition of her orphan children was peculiarly desolate. Her own father
had been an emigrant from another part of the country, and had died long since:
they had no one relation to take them by the hand; they were outcasts, paupers,
unfriended beings, to whom the most scanty pittance was a matter of favour, and
who were treated merely as children of peasants, yet poorer than the poorest,
who, dying, had left them, a thankless bequest, to the close-handed charity of
the land.

I, the elder of the two, was five years old when my mother died. A remembrance
of the discourses of my parents, and the communications which my mother
endeavoured to impress upon me concerning my father’s friends, in slight
hope that I might one day derive benefit from the knowledge, floated like an
indistinct dream through my brain. I conceived that I was different and
superior to my protectors and companions, but I knew not how or wherefore. The
sense of injury, associated with the name of king and noble, clung to me; but I
could draw no conclusions from such feelings, to serve as a guide to action. My
first real knowledge of myself was as an unprotected orphan among the valleys
and fells of Cumberland. I was in the service of a farmer; and with crook in
hand, my dog at my side, I shepherded a numerous flock on the near uplands. I
cannot say much in praise of such a life; and its pains far exceeded its
pleasures. There was freedom in it, a companionship with nature, and a reckless
loneliness; but these, romantic as they were, did not accord with the love of
action and desire of human sympathy, characteristic of youth. Neither the care
of my flock, nor the change of seasons, were sufficient to tame my eager
spirit; my out-door life and unemployed time were the temptations that led me
early into lawless habits. I associated with others friendless like myself; I
formed them into a band, I was their chief and captain. All shepherd-boys
alike, while our flocks were spread over the pastures, we schemed and executed
many a mischievous prank, which drew on us the anger and revenge of the
rustics. I was the leader and protector of my comrades, and as I became
distinguished among them, their misdeeds were usually visited upon me. But
while I endured punishment and pain in their defence with the spirit of an
hero, I claimed as my reward their praise and obedience.

In such a school my disposition became rugged, but firm. The appetite for
admiration and small capacity for self-controul which I inherited from my
father, nursed by adversity, made me daring and reckless. I was rough as the
elements, and unlearned as the animals I tended. I often compared myself to
them, and finding that my chief superiority consisted in power, I soon
persuaded myself that it was in power only that I was inferior to the chiefest
potentates of the earth. Thus untaught in refined philosophy, and pursued by a
restless feeling of degradation from my true station in society, I wandered
among the hills of civilized England as uncouth a savage as the wolf-bred
founder of old Rome. I owned but one law, it was that of the strongest, and my
greatest deed of virtue was never to submit.

Yet let me a little retract from this sentence I have passed on myself. My
mother, when dying, had, in addition to her other half-forgotten and misapplied
lessons, committed, with solemn exhortation, her other child to my fraternal
guardianship; and this one duty I performed to the best of my ability, with all
the zeal and affection of which my nature was capable. My sister was three
years younger than myself; I had nursed her as an infant, and when the
difference of our sexes, by giving us various occupations, in a great measure
divided us, yet she continued to be the object of my careful love. Orphans, in
the fullest sense of the term, we were poorest among the poor, and despised
among the unhonoured. If my daring and courage obtained for me a kind of
respectful aversion, her youth and sex, since they did not excite tenderness,
by proving her to be weak, were the causes of numberless mortifications to her;
and her own disposition was not so constituted as to diminish the evil effects
of her lowly station.

She was a singular being, and, like me, inherited much of the peculiar
disposition of our father. Her countenance was all expression; her eyes were
not dark, but impenetrably deep; you seemed to discover space after space in
their intellectual glance, and to feel that the soul which was their soul,
comprehended an universe of thought in its ken. She was pale and fair, and her
golden hair clustered on her temples, contrasting its rich hue with the living
marble beneath. Her coarse peasant-dress, little consonant apparently with the
refinement of feeling which her face expressed, yet in a strange manner
accorded with it. She was like one of Guido’s saints, with heaven in her
heart and in her look, so that when you saw her you only thought of that
within, and costume and even feature were secondary to the mind that beamed in
her countenance.

Yet though lovely and full of noble feeling, my poor Perdita (for this was the
fanciful name my sister had received from her dying parent), was not altogether
saintly in her disposition. Her manners were cold and repulsive. If she had
been nurtured by those who had regarded her with affection, she might have been
different; but unloved and neglected, she repaid want of kindness with distrust
and silence. She was submissive to those who held authority over her, but a
perpetual cloud dwelt on her brow; she looked as if she expected enmity from
every one who approached her, and her actions were instigated by the same
feeling. All the time she could command she spent in solitude. She would ramble
to the most unfrequented places, and scale dangerous heights, that in those
unvisited spots she might wrap herself in loneliness. Often she passed whole
hours walking up and down the paths of the woods; she wove garlands of flowers
and ivy, or watched the flickering of the shadows and glancing of the leaves;
sometimes she sat beside a stream, and as her thoughts paused, threw flowers or
pebbles into the waters, watching how those swam and these sank; or she would
set afloat boats formed of bark of trees or leaves, with a feather for a sail,
and intensely watch the navigation of her craft among the rapids and shallows
of the brook. Meanwhile her active fancy wove a thousand combinations; she
dreamt “of moving accidents by flood and field”—she lost
herself delightedly in these self-created wanderings, and returned with
unwilling spirit to the dull detail of common life. Poverty was the cloud that
veiled her excellencies, and all that was good in her seemed about to perish
from want of the genial dew of affection. She had not even the same advantage
as I in the recollection of her parents; she clung to me, her brother, as her
only friend, but her alliance with me completed the distaste that her
protectors felt for her; and every error was magnified by them into crimes. If
she had been bred in that sphere of life to which by inheritance the delicate
framework of her mind and person was adapted, she would have been the object
almost of adoration, for her virtues were as eminent as her defects. All the
genius that ennobled the blood of her father illustrated hers; a generous tide
flowed in her veins; artifice, envy, or meanness, were at the antipodes of her
nature; her countenance, when enlightened by amiable feeling, might have
belonged to a queen of nations; her eyes were bright; her look fearless.

Although by our situation and dispositions we were almost equally cut off from
the usual forms of social intercourse, we formed a strong contrast to each
other. I always required the stimulants of companionship and applause. Perdita
was all-sufficient to herself. Notwithstanding my lawless habits, my
disposition was sociable, hers recluse. My life was spent among tangible
realities, hers was a dream. I might be said even to love my enemies, since by
exciting me they in a sort bestowed happiness upon me; Perdita almost disliked
her friends, for they interfered with her visionary moods. All my feelings,
even of exultation and triumph, were changed to bitterness, if unparticipated;
Perdita, even in joy, fled to loneliness, and could go on from day to day,
neither expressing her emotions, nor seeking a fellow-feeling in another mind.
Nay, she could love and dwell with tenderness on the look and voice of her
friend, while her demeanour expressed the coldest reserve. A sensation with her
became a sentiment, and she never spoke until she had mingled her perceptions
of outward objects with others which were the native growth of her own mind.
She was like a fruitful soil that imbibed the airs and dews of heaven, and gave
them forth again to light in loveliest forms of fruits and flowers; but then
she was often dark and rugged as that soil, raked up, and new sown with unseen
seed.

She dwelt in a cottage whose trim grass-plat sloped down to the waters of the
lake of Ulswater; a beech wood stretched up the hill behind, and a purling
brook gently falling from the acclivity ran through poplar-shaded banks into
the lake. I lived with a farmer whose house was built higher up among the
hills: a dark crag rose behind it, and, exposed to the north, the snow lay in
its crevices the summer through. Before dawn I led my flock to the sheep-walks,
and guarded them through the day. It was a life of toil; for rain and cold were
more frequent than sunshine; but it was my pride to contemn the elements. My
trusty dog watched the sheep as I slipped away to the rendezvous of my
comrades, and thence to the accomplishment of our schemes. At noon we met
again, and we threw away in contempt our peasant fare, as we built our
fire-place and kindled the cheering blaze destined to cook the game stolen from
the neighbouring preserves. Then came the tale of hair-breadth escapes, combats
with dogs, ambush and flight, as gipsey-like we encompassed our pot. The search
after a stray lamb, or the devices by which we elude or endeavoured to elude
punishment, filled up the hours of afternoon; in the evening my flock went to
its fold, and I to my sister.

It was seldom indeed that we escaped, to use an old-fashioned phrase, scot
free. Our dainty fare was often exchanged for blows and imprisonment. Once,
when thirteen years of age, I was sent for a month to the county jail. I came
out, my morals unimproved, my hatred to my oppressors encreased tenfold. Bread
and water did not tame my blood, nor solitary confinement inspire me with
gentle thoughts. I was angry, impatient, miserable; my only happy hours were
those during which I devised schemes of revenge; these were perfected in my
forced solitude, so that during the whole of the following season, and I was
freed early in September, I never failed to provide excellent and plenteous
fare for myself and my comrades. This was a glorious winter. The sharp frost
and heavy snows tamed the animals, and kept the country gentlemen by their
firesides; we got more game than we could eat, and my faithful dog grew sleek
upon our refuse.

Thus years passed on; and years only added fresh love of freedom, and contempt
for all that was not as wild and rude as myself. At the age of sixteen I had
shot up in appearance to man’s estate; I was tall and athletic; I was
practised to feats of strength, and inured to the inclemency of the elements.
My skin was embrowned by the sun; my step was firm with conscious power. I
feared no man, and loved none. In after life I looked back with wonder to what
I then was; how utterly worthless I should have become if I had pursued my
lawless career. My life was like that of an animal, and my mind was in danger
of degenerating into that which informs brute nature. Until now, my savage
habits had done me no radical mischief; my physical powers had grown up and
flourished under their influence, and my mind, undergoing the same discipline,
was imbued with all the hardy virtues. But now my boasted independence was
daily instigating me to acts of tyranny, and freedom was becoming
licentiousness. I stood on the brink of manhood; passions, strong as the trees
of a forest, had already taken root within me, and were about to shadow with
their noxious overgrowth, my path of life.

I panted for enterprises beyond my childish exploits, and formed distempered
dreams of future action. I avoided my ancient comrades, and I soon lost them.
They arrived at the age when they were sent to fulfil their destined situations
in life; while I, an outcast, with none to lead or drive me forward, paused.
The old began to point at me as an example, the young to wonder at me as a
being distinct from themselves; I hated them, and began, last and worst
degradation, to hate myself. I clung to my ferocious habits, yet half despised
them; I continued my war against civilization, and yet entertained a wish to
belong to it.

I revolved again and again all that I remembered my mother to have told me of
my father’s former life; I contemplated the few relics I possessed
belonging to him, which spoke of greater refinement than could be found among
the mountain cottages; but nothing in all this served as a guide to lead me to
another and pleasanter way of life. My father had been connected with nobles,
but all I knew of such connection was subsequent neglect. The name of the
king,—he to whom my dying father had addressed his latest prayers, and
who had barbarously slighted them, was associated only with the ideas of
unkindness, injustice, and consequent resentment. I was born for something
greater than I was—and greater I would become; but greatness, at least to
my distorted perceptions, was no necessary associate of goodness, and my wild
thoughts were unchecked by moral considerations when they rioted in dreams of
distinction. Thus I stood upon a pinnacle, a sea of evil rolled at my feet; I
was about to precipitate myself into it, and rush like a torrent over all
obstructions to the object of my wishes— when a stranger influence came
over the current of my fortunes, and changed their boisterous course to what
was in comparison like the gentle meanderings of a meadow-encircling streamlet.

CHAPTER II.

I lived far from the busy haunts of men, and the rumour of wars or political
changes came worn to a mere sound, to our mountain abodes. England had been the
scene of momentous struggles, during my early boyhood. In the year 2073, the
last of its kings, the ancient friend of my father, had abdicated in compliance
with the gentle force of the remonstrances of his subjects, and a republic was
instituted. Large estates were secured to the dethroned monarch and his family;
he received the title of Earl of Windsor, and Windsor Castle, an ancient
royalty, with its wide demesnes were a part of his allotted wealth. He died
soon after, leaving two children, a son and a daughter.

The ex-queen, a princess of the house of Austria, had long impelled her husband
to withstand the necessity of the times. She was haughty and fearless; she
cherished a love of power, and a bitter contempt for him who had despoiled
himself of a kingdom. For her children’s sake alone she consented to
remain, shorn of regality, a member of the English republic. When she became a
widow, she turned all her thoughts to the educating her son Adrian, second Earl
of Windsor, so as to accomplish her ambitious ends; and with his mother’s
milk he imbibed, and was intended to grow up in the steady purpose of
re-acquiring his lost crown. Adrian was now fifteen years of age. He was
addicted to study, and imbued beyond his years with learning and talent: report
said that he had already begun to thwart his mother’s views, and to
entertain republican principles. However this might be, the haughty Countess
entrusted none with the secrets of her family-tuition. Adrian was bred up in
solitude, and kept apart from the natural companions of his age and rank. Some
unknown circumstance now induced his mother to send him from under her
immediate tutelage; and we heard that he was about to visit Cumberland. A
thousand tales were rife, explanatory of the Countess of Windsor’s
conduct; none true probably; but each day it became more certain that we should
have the noble scion of the late regal house of England among us.

There was a large estate with a mansion attached to it, belonging to this
family, at Ulswater. A large park was one of its appendages, laid out with
great taste, and plentifully stocked with game. I had often made depredations
on these preserves; and the neglected state of the property facilitated my
incursions. When it was decided that the young Earl of Windsor should visit
Cumberland, workmen arrived to put the house and grounds in order for his
reception. The apartments were restored to their pristine splendour, and the
park, all disrepairs restored, was guarded with unusual care.

I was beyond measure disturbed by this intelligence. It roused all my dormant
recollections, my suspended sentiments of injury, and gave rise to the new one
of revenge. I could no longer attend to my occupations; all my plans and
devices were forgotten; I seemed about to begin life anew, and that under no
good auspices. The tug of war, I thought, was now to begin. He would come
triumphantly to the district to which my parent had fled broken-hearted; he
would find the ill-fated offspring, bequeathed with such vain confidence to his
royal father, miserable paupers. That he should know of our existence, and
treat us, near at hand, with the same contumely which his father had practised
in distance and absence, appeared to me the certain consequence of all that had
gone before. Thus then I should meet this titled stripling—the son of my
father’s friend. He would be hedged in by servants; nobles, and the sons
of nobles, were his companions; all England rang with his name; and his coming,
like a thunderstorm, was heard from far: while I, unlettered and unfashioned,
should, if I came in contact with him, in the judgment of his courtly
followers, bear evidence in my very person to the propriety of that ingratitude
which had made me the degraded being I appeared.

With my mind fully occupied by these ideas, I might be said as if fascinated,
to haunt the destined abode of the young Earl. I watched the progress of the
improvements, and stood by the unlading waggons, as various articles of luxury,
brought from London, were taken forth and conveyed into the mansion. It was
part of the Ex-Queen’s plan, to surround her son with princely
magnificence. I beheld rich carpets and silken hangings, ornaments of gold,
richly embossed metals, emblazoned furniture, and all the appendages of high
rank arranged, so that nothing but what was regal in splendour should reach the
eye of one of royal descent. I looked on these; I turned my gaze to my own mean
dress.—Whence sprung this difference? Whence but from ingratitude, from
falsehood, from a dereliction on the part of the prince’s father, of all
noble sympathy and generous feeling. Doubtless, he also, whose blood received a
mingling tide from his proud mother—he, the acknowledged focus of the
kingdom’s wealth and nobility, had been taught to repeat my
father’s name with disdain, and to scoff at my just claims to protection.
I strove to think that all this grandeur was but more glaring infamy, and that,
by planting his gold-enwoven flag beside my tarnished and tattered banner, he
proclaimed not his superiority, but his debasement. Yet I envied him. His stud
of beautiful horses, his arms of costly workmanship, the praise that attended
him, the adoration, ready servitor, high place and high esteem,—I
considered them as forcibly wrenched from me, and envied them all with novel
and tormenting bitterness.

To crown my vexation of spirit, Perdita, the visionary Perdita, seemed to awake
to real life with transport, when she told me that the Earl of Windsor was
about to arrive.

“And this pleases you?” I observed, moodily.

“Indeed it does, Lionel,” she replied; “I quite long to see
him; he is the descendant of our kings, the first noble of the land: every one
admires and loves him, and they say that his rank is his least merit; he is
generous, brave, and affable.”

“You have learnt a pretty lesson, Perdita,” said I, “and
repeat it so literally, that you forget the while the proofs we have of the
Earl’s virtues; his generosity to us is manifest in our plenty, his
bravery in the protection he affords us, his affability in the notice he takes
of us. His rank his least merit, do you say? Why, all his virtues are derived
from his station only; because he is rich, he is called generous; because he is
powerful, brave; because he is well served, he is affable. Let them call him
so, let all England believe him to be thus—we know him—he is our
enemy—our penurious, dastardly, arrogant enemy; if he were gifted with
one particle of the virtues you call his, he would do justly by us, if it were
only to shew, that if he must strike, it should not be a fallen foe. His father
injured my father—his father, unassailable on his throne, dared despise
him who only stooped beneath himself, when he deigned to associate with the
royal ingrate. We, descendants from the one and the other, must be enemies
also. He shall find that I can feel my injuries; he shall learn to dread my
revenge!”

A few days after he arrived. Every inhabitant of the most miserable cottage,
went to swell the stream of population that poured forth to meet him: even
Perdita, in spite of my late philippic, crept near the highway, to behold this
idol of all hearts. I, driven half mad, as I met party after party of the
country people, in their holiday best, descending the hills, escaped to their
cloud-veiled summits, and looking on the sterile rocks about me,
exclaimed—“They do not cry, long live the Earl!” Nor,
when night came, accompanied by drizzling rain and cold, would I return home;
for I knew that each cottage rang with the praises of Adrian; as I felt my
limbs grow numb and chill, my pain served as food for my insane aversion; nay,
I almost triumphed in it, since it seemed to afford me reason and excuse for my
hatred of my unheeding adversary. All was attributed to him, for I confounded
so entirely the idea of father and son, that I forgot that the latter might be
wholly unconscious of his parent’s neglect of us; and as I struck my
aching head with my hand, I cried: “He shall hear of this! I will be
revenged! I will not suffer like a spaniel! He shall know, beggar and
friendless as I am, that I will not tamely submit to injury!” Each day,
each hour added to these exaggerated wrongs. His praises were so many
adder’s stings infixed in my vulnerable breast. If I saw him at a
distance, riding a beautiful horse, my blood boiled with rage; the air seemed
poisoned by his presence, and my very native English was changed to a vile
jargon, since every phrase I heard was coupled with his name and honour. I
panted to relieve this painful heart-burning by some misdeed that should rouse
him to a sense of my antipathy. It was the height of his offending, that he
should occasion in me such intolerable sensations, and not deign himself to
afford any demonstration that he was aware that I even lived to feel them.

It soon became known that Adrian took great delight in his park and preserves.
He never sported, but spent hours in watching the tribes of lovely and almost
tame animals with which it was stocked, and ordered that greater care should be
taken of them than ever. Here was an opening for my plans of offence, and I
made use of it with all the brute impetuosity I derived from my active mode of
life. I proposed the enterprize of poaching on his demesne to my few remaining
comrades, who were the most determined and lawless of the crew; but they all
shrunk from the peril; so I was left to achieve my revenge myself. At first my
exploits were unperceived; I increased in daring; footsteps on the dewy grass,
torn boughs, and marks of slaughter, at length betrayed me to the game-keepers.
They kept better watch; I was taken, and sent to prison. I entered its gloomy
walls in a fit of triumphant extasy: “He feels me now,” I cried,
“and shall, again and again!”—I passed but one day in
confinement; in the evening I was liberated, as I was told, by the order of the
Earl himself. This news precipitated me from my self-raised pinnacle of honour.
He despises me, I thought; but he shall learn that I despise him, and hold in
equal contempt his punishments and his clemency. On the second night after my
release, I was again taken by the gamekeepers—again imprisoned, and again
released; and again, such was my pertinacity, did the fourth night find me in
the forbidden park. The gamekeepers were more enraged than their lord by my
obstinacy. They had received orders that if I were again taken, I should be
brought to the Earl; and his lenity made them expect a conclusion which they
considered ill befitting my crime. One of them, who had been from the first the
leader among those who had seized me, resolved to satisfy his own resentment,
before he made me over to the higher powers.

The late setting of the moon, and the extreme caution I was obliged to use in
this my third expedition, consumed so much time, that something like a qualm of
fear came over me when I perceived dark night yield to twilight. I crept along
by the fern, on my hands and knees, seeking the shadowy coverts of the
underwood, while the birds awoke with unwelcome song above, and the fresh
morning wind, playing among the boughs, made me suspect a footfall at each
turn. My heart beat quick as I approached the palings; my hand was on one of
them, a leap would take me to the other side, when two keepers sprang from an
ambush upon me: one knocked me down, and proceeded to inflict a severe
horse-whipping. I started up—a knife was in my grasp; I made a plunge at
his raised right arm, and inflicted a deep, wide wound in his hand. The rage
and yells of the wounded man, the howling execrations of his comrade, which I
answered with equal bitterness and fury, echoed through the dell; morning broke
more and more, ill accordant in its celestial beauty with our brute and noisy
contest. I and my enemy were still struggling, when the wounded man exclaimed,
“The Earl!” I sprang out of the herculean hold of the keeper,
panting from my exertions; I cast furious glances on my persecutors, and
placing myself with my back to a tree, resolved to defend myself to the last.
My garments were torn, and they, as well as my hands, were stained with the
blood of the man I had wounded; one hand grasped the dead birds—my
hard-earned prey, the other held the knife; my hair was matted; my face
besmeared with the same guilty signs that bore witness against me on the
dripping instrument I clenched; my whole appearance was haggard and squalid.
Tall and muscular as I was in form, I must have looked like, what indeed I was,
the merest ruffian that ever trod the earth.

The name of the Earl startled me, and caused all the indignant blood that
warmed my heart to rush into my cheeks; I had never seen him before; I figured
to myself a haughty, assuming youth, who would take me to task, if he deigned
to speak to me, with all the arrogance of superiority. My reply was ready; a
reproach I deemed calculated to sting his very heart. He came up the while; and
his appearance blew aside, with gentle western breath, my cloudy wrath: a tall,
slim, fair boy, with a physiognomy expressive of the excess of sensibility and
refinement stood before me; the morning sunbeams tinged with gold his silken
hair, and spread light and glory over his beaming countenance. “How is
this?” he cried. The men eagerly began their defence; he put them aside,
saying, “Two of you at once on a mere lad— for shame!” He
came up to me: “Verney,” he cried, “Lionel Verney, do we meet
thus for the first time? We were born to be friends to each other; and though
ill fortune has divided us, will you not acknowledge the hereditary bond of
friendship which I trust will hereafter unite us?”

As he spoke, his earnest eyes, fixed on me, seemed to read my very soul: my
heart, my savage revengeful heart, felt the influence of sweet benignity sink
upon it; while his thrilling voice, like sweetest melody, awoke a mute echo
within me, stirring to its depths the life-blood in my frame. I desired to
reply, to acknowledge his goodness, accept his proffered friendship; but words,
fitting words, were not afforded to the rough mountaineer; I would have held
out my hand, but its guilty stain restrained me. Adrian took pity on my
faltering mien: “Come with me,” he said, “I have much to say
to you; come home with me—you know who I am?”

“Yes,” I exclaimed, “I do believe that I now know you, and
that you will pardon my mistakes—my crime.”

Adrian smiled gently; and after giving his orders to the gamekeepers, he came
up to me; putting his arm in mine, we walked together to the mansion.

It was not his rank—after all that I have said, surely it will not be
suspected that it was Adrian’s rank, that, from the first, subdued my
heart of hearts, and laid my entire spirit prostrate before him. Nor was it I
alone who felt thus intimately his perfections. His sensibility and courtesy
fascinated every one. His vivacity, intelligence, and active spirit of
benevolence, completed the conquest. Even at this early age, he was deep read
and imbued with the spirit of high philosophy. This spirit gave a tone of
irresistible persuasion to his intercourse with others, so that he seemed like
an inspired musician, who struck, with unerring skill, the “lyre of
mind,” and produced thence divine harmony. In person, he hardly appeared
of this world; his slight frame was overinformed by the soul that dwelt within;
he was all mind; “Man but a rush against” his breast, and it would
have conquered his strength; but the might of his smile would have tamed an
hungry lion, or caused a legion of armed men to lay their weapons at his feet.

I spent the day with him. At first he did not recur to the past, or indeed to
any personal occurrences. He wished probably to inspire me with confidence, and
give me time to gather together my scattered thoughts. He talked of general
subjects, and gave me ideas I had never before conceived. We sat in his
library, and he spoke of the old Greek sages, and of the power which they had
acquired over the minds of men, through the force of love and wisdom only. The
room was decorated with the busts of many of them, and he described their
characters to me. As he spoke, I felt subject to him; and all my boasted pride
and strength were subdued by the honeyed accents of this blue-eyed boy. The
trim and paled demesne of civilization, which I had before regarded from my
wild jungle as inaccessible, had its wicket opened by him; I stepped within,
and felt, as I entered, that I trod my native soil.

As evening came on, he reverted to the past. “I have a tale to
relate,” he said, “and much explanation to give concerning the
past; perhaps you can assist me to curtail it. Do you remember your father? I
had never the happiness of seeing him, but his name is one of my earliest
recollections: he stands written in my mind’s tablets as the type of all
that was gallant, amiable, and fascinating in man. His wit was not more
conspicuous than the overflowing goodness of his heart, which he poured in such
full measure on his friends, as to leave, alas! small remnant for
himself.”

Encouraged by this encomium, I proceeded, in answer to his inquiries, to relate
what I remembered of my parent; and he gave an account of those circumstances
which had brought about a neglect of my father’s testamentary letter.
When, in after times, Adrian’s father, then king of England, felt his
situation become more perilous, his line of conduct more embarrassed, again and
again he wished for his early friend, who might stand a mound against the
impetuous anger of his queen, a mediator between him and the parliament. From
the time that he had quitted London, on the fatal night of his defeat at the
gaming-table, the king had received no tidings concerning him; and when, after
the lapse of years, he exerted himself to discover him, every trace was lost.
With fonder regret than ever, he clung to his memory; and gave it in charge to
his son, if ever he should meet this valued friend, in his name to bestow every
succour, and to assure him that, to the last, his attachment survived
separation and silence.

A short time before Adrian’s visit to Cumberland, the heir of the
nobleman to whom my father had confided his last appeal to his royal master,
put this letter, its seal unbroken, into the young Earl’s hands. It had
been found cast aside with a mass of papers of old date, and accident alone
brought it to light. Adrian read it with deep interest; and found there that
living spirit of genius and wit he had so often heard commemorated. He
discovered the name of the spot whither my father had retreated, and where he
died; he learnt the existence of his orphan children; and during the short
interval between his arrival at Ulswater and our meeting in the park, he had
been occupied in making inquiries concerning us, and arranging a variety of
plans for our benefit, preliminary to his introducing himself to our notice.

The mode in which he spoke of my father was gratifying to my vanity; the veil
which he delicately cast over his benevolence, in alledging a duteous
fulfilment of the king’s latest will, was soothing to my pride. Other
feelings, less ambiguous, were called into play by his conciliating manner and
the generous warmth of his expressions, respect rarely before experienced,
admiration, and love—he had touched my rocky heart with his magic power,
and the stream of affection gushed forth, imperishable and pure. In the evening
we parted; he pressed my hand: “We shall meet again; come to me
to-morrow.” I clasped that kind hand; I tried to answer; a fervent
“God bless you!” was all my ignorance could frame of speech, and I
darted away, oppressed by my new emotions.

I could not rest. I sought the hills; a west wind swept them, and the stars
glittered above. I ran on, careless of outward objects, but trying to master
the struggling spirit within me by means of bodily fatigue. “This,”
I thought, “is power! Not to be strong of limb, hard of heart, ferocious,
and daring; but kind, compassionate and soft.”—Stopping short, I
clasped my hands, and with the fervour of a new proselyte, cried, “Doubt
me not, Adrian, I also will become wise and good!” and then quite
overcome, I wept aloud.

As this gust of passion passed from me, I felt more composed. I lay on the
ground, and giving the reins to my thoughts, repassed in my mind my former
life; and began, fold by fold, to unwind the many errors of my heart, and to
discover how brutish, savage, and worthless I had hitherto been. I could not
however at that time feel remorse, for methought I was born anew; my soul threw
off the burthen of past sin, to commence a new career in innocence and love.
Nothing harsh or rough remained to jar with the soft feelings which the
transactions of the day had inspired; I was as a child lisping its devotions
after its mother, and my plastic soul was remoulded by a master hand, which I
neither desired nor was able to resist.

This was the first commencement of my friendship with Adrian, and I must
commemorate this day as the most fortunate of my life. I now began to be human.
I was admitted within that sacred boundary which divides the intellectual and
moral nature of man from that which characterizes animals. My best feelings
were called into play to give fitting responses to the generosity, wisdom, and
amenity of my new friend. He, with a noble goodness all his own, took infinite
delight in bestowing to prodigality the treasures of his mind and fortune on
the long-neglected son of his father’s friend, the offspring of that
gifted being whose excellencies and talents he had heard commemorated from
infancy.

After his abdication the late king had retreated from the sphere of politics,
yet his domestic circle afforded him small content. The ex-queen had none of
the virtues of domestic life, and those of courage and daring which she
possessed were rendered null by the secession of her husband: she despised him,
and did not care to conceal her sentiments. The king had, in compliance with
her exactions, cast off his old friends, but he had acquired no new ones under
her guidance. In this dearth of sympathy, he had recourse to his almost infant
son; and the early development of talent and sensibility rendered Adrian no
unfitting depository of his father’s confidence. He was never weary of
listening to the latter’s often repeated accounts of old times, in which
my father had played a distinguished part; his keen remarks were repeated to
the boy, and remembered by him; his wit, his fascinations, his very faults were
hallowed by the regret of affection; his loss was sincerely deplored. Even the
queen’s dislike of the favourite was ineffectual to deprive him of his
son’s admiration: it was bitter, sarcastic, contemptuous—but as she
bestowed her heavy censure alike on his virtues as his errors, on his devoted
friendship and his ill-bestowed loves, on his disinterestedness and his
prodigality, on his pre-possessing grace of manner, and the facility with which
he yielded to temptation, her double shot proved too heavy, and fell short of
the mark. Nor did her angry dislike prevent Adrian from imaging my father, as
he had said, the type of all that was gallant, amiable, and fascinating in man.
It was not strange therefore, that when he heard of the existence of the
offspring of this celebrated person, he should have formed the plan of
bestowing on them all the advantages his rank made him rich to afford. When he
found me a vagabond shepherd of the hills, a poacher, an unlettered savage,
still his kindness did not fail. In addition to the opinion he entertained that
his father was to a degree culpable of neglect towards us, and that he was
bound to every possible reparation, he was pleased to say that under all my
ruggedness there glimmered forth an elevation of spirit, which could be
distinguished from mere animal courage, and that I inherited a similarity of
countenance to my father, which gave proof that all his virtues and talents had
not died with him. Whatever those might be which descended to me, my noble
young friend resolved should not be lost for want of culture.

Acting upon this plan in our subsequent intercourse, he led me to wish to
participate in that cultivation which graced his own intellect. My active mind,
when once it seized upon this new idea, fastened on it with extreme avidity. At
first it was the great object of my ambition to rival the merits of my father,
and render myself worthy of the friendship of Adrian. But curiosity soon awoke,
and an earnest love of knowledge, which caused me to pass days and nights in
reading and study. I was already well acquainted with what I may term the
panorama of nature, the change of seasons, and the various appearances of
heaven and earth. But I was at once startled and enchanted by my sudden
extension of vision, when the curtain, which had been drawn before the
intellectual world, was withdrawn, and I saw the universe, not only as it
presented itself to my outward senses, but as it had appeared to the wisest
among men. Poetry and its creations, philosophy and its researches and
classifications, alike awoke the sleeping ideas in my mind, and gave me new
ones.

I felt as the sailor, who from the topmast first discovered the shore of
America; and like him I hastened to tell my companions of my discoveries in
unknown regions. But I was unable to excite in any breast the same craving
appetite for knowledge that existed in mine. Even Perdita was unable to
understand me. I had lived in what is generally called the world of reality,
and it was awakening to a new country to find that there was a deeper meaning
in all I saw, besides that which my eyes conveyed to me. The visionary Perdita
beheld in all this only a new gloss upon an old reading, and her own was
sufficiently inexhaustible to content her. She listened to me as she had done
to the narration of my adventures, and sometimes took an interest in this
species of information; but she did not, as I did, look on it as an integral
part of her being, which having obtained, I could no more put off than the
universal sense of touch.

We both agreed in loving Adrian: although she not having yet escaped from
childhood could not appreciate as I did the extent of his merits, or feel the
same sympathy in his pursuits and opinions. I was for ever with him. There was
a sensibility and sweetness in his disposition, that gave a tender and
unearthly tone to our converse. Then he was gay as a lark carolling from its
skiey tower, soaring in thought as an eagle, innocent as the mild-eyed dove. He
could dispel the seriousness of Perdita, and take the sting from the torturing
activity of my nature. I looked back to my restless desires and painful
struggles with my fellow beings as to a troubled dream, and felt myself as much
changed as if I had transmigrated into another form, whose fresh sensorium and
mechanism of nerves had altered the reflection of the apparent universe in the
mirror of mind. But it was not so; I was the same in strength, in earnest
craving for sympathy, in my yearning for active exertion. My manly virtues did
not desert me, for the witch Urania spared the locks of Sampson, while he
reposed at her feet; but all was softened and humanized. Nor did Adrian
instruct me only in the cold truths of history and philosophy. At the same time
that he taught me by their means to subdue my own reckless and uncultured
spirit, he opened to my view the living page of his own heart, and gave me to
feel and understand its wondrous character.

The ex-queen of England had, even during infancy, endeavoured to implant daring
and ambitious designs in the mind of her son. She saw that he was endowed with
genius and surpassing talent; these she cultivated for the sake of afterwards
using them for the furtherance of her own views. She encouraged his craving for
knowledge and his impetuous courage; she even tolerated his tameless love of
freedom, under the hope that this would, as is too often the case, lead to a
passion for command. She endeavoured to bring him up in a sense of resentment
towards, and a desire to revenge himself upon, those who had been instrumental
in bringing about his father’s abdication. In this she did not succeed.
The accounts furnished him, however distorted, of a great and wise nation
asserting its right to govern itself, excited his admiration: in early days he
became a republican from principle. Still his mother did not despair. To the
love of rule and haughty pride of birth she added determined ambition,
patience, and self-control. She devoted herself to the study of her son’s
disposition. By the application of praise, censure, and exhortation, she tried
to seek and strike the fitting chords; and though the melody that followed her
touch seemed discord to her, she built her hopes on his talents, and felt sure
that she would at last win him. The kind of banishment he now experienced arose
from other causes.

The ex-queen had also a daughter, now twelve years of age; his fairy sister,
Adrian was wont to call her; a lovely, animated, little thing, all sensibility
and truth. With these, her children, the noble widow constantly resided at
Windsor; and admitted no visitors, except her own partizans, travellers from
her native Germany, and a few of the foreign ministers. Among these, and highly
distinguished by her, was Prince Zaimi, ambassador to England from the free
States of Greece; and his daughter, the young Princess Evadne, passed much of
her time at Windsor Castle. In company with this sprightly and clever Greek
girl, the Countess would relax from her usual state. Her views with regard to
her own children, placed all her words and actions relative to them
under restraint: but Evadne was a plaything she could in no way fear; nor were
her talents and vivacity slight alleviations to the monotony of the
Countess’s life.

Evadne was eighteen years of age. Although they spent much time together at
Windsor, the extreme youth of Adrian prevented any suspicion as to the nature
of their intercourse. But he was ardent and tender of heart beyond the common
nature of man, and had already learnt to love, while the beauteous Greek smiled
benignantly on the boy. It was strange to me, who, though older than Adrian,
had never loved, to witness the whole heart’s sacrifice of my friend.
There was neither jealousy, inquietude, or mistrust in his sentiment; it was
devotion and faith. His life was swallowed up in the existence of his beloved;
and his heart beat only in unison with the pulsations that vivified hers. This
was the secret law of his life—he loved and was beloved. The universe was
to him a dwelling, to inhabit with his chosen one; and not either a scheme of
society or an enchainment of events, that could impart to him either happiness
or misery. What, though life and the system of social intercourse were a
wilderness, a tiger-haunted jungle! Through the midst of its errors, in the
depths of its savage recesses, there was a disentangled and flowery pathway,
through which they might journey in safety and delight. Their track would be
like the passage of the Red Sea, which they might traverse with unwet feet,
though a wall of destruction were impending on either side.

Alas! why must I record the hapless delusion of this matchless specimen of
humanity? What is there in our nature that is for ever urging us on towards
pain and misery? We are not formed for enjoyment; and, however we may be
attuned to the reception of pleasureable emotion, disappointment is the
never-failing pilot of our life’s bark, and ruthlessly carries us on to
the shoals. Who was better framed than this highly-gifted youth to love and be
beloved, and to reap unalienable joy from an unblamed passion? If his heart had
slept but a few years longer, he might have been saved; but it awoke in its
infancy; it had power, but no knowledge; and it was ruined, even as a too
early-blowing bud is nipt by the killing frost.

I did not accuse Evadne of hypocrisy or a wish to deceive her lover; but the
first letter that I saw of hers convinced me that she did not love him; it was
written with elegance, and, foreigner as she was, with great command of
language. The hand-writing itself was exquisitely beautiful; there was
something in her very paper and its folds, which even I, who did not love, and
was withal unskilled in such matters, could discern as being tasteful. There
was much kindness, gratitude, and sweetness in her expression, but no love.
Evadne was two years older than Adrian; and who, at eighteen, ever loved one so
much their junior? I compared her placid epistles with the burning ones of
Adrian. His soul seemed to distil itself into the words he wrote; and they
breathed on the paper, bearing with them a portion of the life of love, which
was his life. The very writing used to exhaust him; and he would weep over
them, merely from the excess of emotion they awakened in his heart.

Adrian’s soul was painted in his countenance, and concealment or deceit
were at the antipodes to the dreadless frankness of his nature. Evadne made it
her earnest request that the tale of their loves should not be revealed to his
mother; and after for a while contesting the point, he yielded it to her. A
vain concession; his demeanour quickly betrayed his secret to the quick eyes of
the ex-queen. With the same wary prudence that characterized her whole conduct,
she concealed her discovery, but hastened to remove her son from the sphere of
the attractive Greek. He was sent to Cumberland; but the plan of correspondence
between the lovers, arranged by Evadne, was effectually hidden from her. Thus
the absence of Adrian, concerted for the purpose of separating, united them in
firmer bonds than ever. To me he discoursed ceaselessly of his beloved Ionian.
Her country, its ancient annals, its late memorable struggles, were all made to
partake in her glory and excellence. He submitted to be away from her, because
she commanded this submission; but for her influence, he would have declared
his attachment before all England, and resisted, with unshaken constancy, his
mother’s opposition. Evadne’s feminine prudence perceived how
useless any assertion of his resolves would be, till added years gave weight to
his power. Perhaps there was besides a lurking dislike to bind herself in the
face of the world to one whom she did not love—not love, at least, with
that passionate enthusiasm which her heart told her she might one day feel
towards another. He obeyed her injunctions, and passed a year in exile in
Cumberland.

CHAPTER III.

Happy, thrice happy, were the months, and weeks, and hours of that year.
Friendship, hand in hand with admiration, tenderness and respect, built a bower
of delight in my heart, late rough as an untrod wild in America, as the
homeless wind or herbless sea. Insatiate thirst for knowledge, and boundless
affection for Adrian, combined to keep both my heart and understanding
occupied, and I was consequently happy. What happiness is so true and
unclouded, as the overflowing and talkative delight of young people. In our
boat, upon my native lake, beside the streams and the pale bordering
poplars—in valley and over hill, my crook thrown aside, a nobler flock to
tend than silly sheep, even a flock of new-born ideas, I read or listened to
Adrian; and his discourse, whether it concerned his love or his theories for
the improvement of man, alike entranced me. Sometimes my lawless mood would
return, my love of peril, my resistance to authority; but this was in his
absence; under the mild sway of his dear eyes, I was obedient and good as a boy
of five years old, who does his mother’s bidding.

After a residence of about a year at Ulswater, Adrian visited London, and came
back full of plans for our benefit. You must begin life, he said: you are
seventeen, and longer delay would render the necessary apprenticeship more and
more irksome. He foresaw that his own life would be one of struggle, and I must
partake his labours with him. The better to fit me for this task, we must now
separate. He found my name a good passport to preferment, and he had procured
for me the situation of private secretary to the Ambassador at Vienna, where I
should enter on my career under the best auspices. In two years, I should
return to my country, with a name well known and a reputation already founded.

And Perdita?—Perdita was to become the pupil, friend and younger sister
of Evadne. With his usual thoughtfulness, he had provided for her independence
in this situation. How refuse the offers of this generous friend?—I did
not wish to refuse them; but in my heart of hearts, I made a vow to devote
life, knowledge, and power, all of which, in as much as they were of any value,
he had bestowed on me—all, all my capacities and hopes, to him alone I
would devote.

Thus I promised myself, as I journied towards my destination with roused and
ardent expectation: expectation of the fulfilment of all that in boyhood we
promise ourselves of power and enjoyment in maturity. Methought the time was
now arrived, when, childish occupations laid aside, I should enter into life.
Even in the Elysian fields, Virgil describes the souls of the happy as eager to
drink of the wave which was to restore them to this mortal coil. The young are
seldom in Elysium, for their desires, outstripping possibility, leave them as
poor as a moneyless debtor. We are told by the wisest philosophers of the
dangers of the world, the deceits of men, and the treason of our own hearts:
but not the less fearlessly does each put off his frail bark from the port,
spread the sail, and strain his oar, to attain the multitudinous streams of the
sea of life. How few in youth’s prime, moor their vessels on the
“golden sands,” and collect the painted shells that strew them. But
all at close of day, with riven planks and rent canvas make for shore, and are
either wrecked ere they reach it, or find some wave-beaten haven, some desart
strand, whereon to cast themselves and die unmourned.

A truce to philosophy!—Life is before me, and I rush into possession.
Hope, glory, love, and blameless ambition are my guides, and my soul knows no
dread. What has been, though sweet, is gone; the present is good only because
it is about to change, and the to come is all my own. Do I fear, that my heart
palpitates? high aspirations cause the flow of my blood; my eyes seem to
penetrate the cloudy midnight of time, and to discern within the depths of its
darkness, the fruition of all my soul desires.

Now pause!—During my journey I might dream, and with buoyant wings reach
the summit of life’s high edifice. Now that I am arrived at its base, my
pinions are furled, the mighty stairs are before me, and step by step I must
ascend the wondrous fane—

Speak!—What door is opened?

Behold me in a new capacity. A diplomatist: one among the pleasure-seeking
society of a gay city; a youth of promise; favourite of the Ambassador. All was
strange and admirable to the shepherd of Cumberland. With breathless amaze I
entered on the gay scene, whose actors were

—the lilies glorious as Solomon,
Who toil not, neither do they spin.

Soon, too soon, I entered the giddy whirl; forgetting my studious hours, and
the companionship of Adrian. Passionate desire of sympathy, and ardent pursuit
for a wished-for object still characterized me. The sight of beauty entranced
me, and attractive manners in man or woman won my entire confidence. I called
it rapture, when a smile made my heart beat; and I felt the life’s blood
tingle in my frame, when I approached the idol which for awhile I worshipped.
The mere flow of animal spirits was Paradise, and at night’s close I only
desired a renewal of the intoxicating delusion. The dazzling light of
ornamented rooms; lovely forms arrayed in splendid dresses; the motions of a
dance, the voluptuous tones of exquisite music, cradled my senses in one
delightful dream.

And is not this in its kind happiness? I appeal to moralists and sages. I ask
if in the calm of their measured reveries, if in the deep meditations which
fill their hours, they feel the extasy of a youthful tyro in the school of
pleasure? Can the calm beams of their heaven-seeking eyes equal the flashes of
mingling passion which blind his, or does the influence of cold philosophy
steep their soul in a joy equal to his, engaged

In this dear work of youthful revelry.

But in truth, neither the lonely meditations of the hermit, nor the tumultuous
raptures of the reveller, are capable of satisfying man’s heart. From the
one we gather unquiet speculation, from the other satiety. The mind flags
beneath the weight of thought, and droops in the heartless intercourse of those
whose sole aim is amusement. There is no fruition in their vacant kindness, and
sharp rocks lurk beneath the smiling ripples of these shallow waters.

Thus I felt, when disappointment, weariness, and solitude drove me back upon my
heart, to gather thence the joy of which it had become barren. My flagging
spirits asked for something to speak to the affections; and not finding it, I
drooped. Thus, notwithstanding the thoughtless delight that waited on its
commencement, the impression I have of my life at Vienna is melancholy. Goethe
has said, that in youth we cannot be happy unless we love. I did not love; but
I was devoured by a restless wish to be something to others. I became the
victim of ingratitude and cold coquetry—then I desponded, and imagined
that my discontent gave me a right to hate the world. I receded to solitude; I
had recourse to my books, and my desire again to enjoy the society of Adrian
became a burning thirst.

Emulation, that in its excess almost assumed the venomous properties of envy,
gave a sting to these feelings. At this period the name and exploits of one of
my countrymen filled the world with admiration. Relations of what he had done,
conjectures concerning his future actions, were the never-failing topics of the
hour. I was not angry on my own account, but I felt as if the praises which
this idol received were leaves torn from laurels destined for Adrian. But I
must enter into some account of this darling of fame—this favourite of
the wonder-loving world.

Lord Raymond was the sole remnant of a noble but impoverished family. From
early youth he had considered his pedigree with complacency, and bitterly
lamented his want of wealth. His first wish was aggrandisement; and the means
that led towards this end were secondary considerations. Haughty, yet trembling
to every demonstration of respect; ambitious, but too proud to shew his
ambition; willing to achieve honour, yet a votary of pleasure,— he
entered upon life. He was met on the threshold by some insult, real or
imaginary; some repulse, where he least expected it; some disappointment, hard
for his pride to bear. He writhed beneath an injury he was unable to revenge;
and he quitted England with a vow not to return, till the good time should
arrive, when she might feel the power of him she now despised.

He became an adventurer in the Greek wars. His reckless courage and
comprehensive genius brought him into notice. He became the darling hero of
this rising people. His foreign birth, and he refused to throw off his
allegiance to his native country, alone prevented him from filling the first
offices in the state. But, though others might rank higher in title and
ceremony, Lord Raymond held a station above and beyond all this. He led the
Greek armies to victory; their triumphs were all his own. When he appeared,
whole towns poured forth their population to meet him; new songs were adapted
to their national airs, whose themes were his glory, valour, and munificence. A
truce was concluded between the Greeks and Turks. At the same time, Lord
Raymond, by some unlooked-for chance, became the possessor of an immense
fortune in England, whither he returned, crowned with glory, to receive the
meed of honour and distinction before denied to his pretensions. His proud
heart rebelled against this change. In what was the despised Raymond not the
same? If the acquisition of power in the shape of wealth caused this
alteration, that power should they feel as an iron yoke. Power therefore was
the aim of all his endeavours; aggrandizement the mark at which he for ever
shot. In open ambition or close intrigue, his end was the same—to attain
the first station in his own country.

This account filled me with curiosity. The events that in succession followed
his return to England, gave me keener feelings. Among his other advantages,
Lord Raymond was supremely handsome; every one admired him; of women he was the
idol. He was courteous, honey-tongued—an adept in fascinating arts. What
could not this man achieve in the busy English world? Change succeeded to
change; the entire history did not reach me; for Adrian had ceased to write,
and Perdita was a laconic correspondent. The rumour went that Adrian had
become—how write the fatal word—mad: that Lord Raymond was the
favourite of the ex-queen, her daughter’s destined husband. Nay, more,
that this aspiring noble revived the claim of the house of Windsor to the
crown, and that, on the event of Adrian’s incurable disorder and his
marriage with the sister, the brow of the ambitious Raymond might be encircled
with the magic ring of regality.

Such a tale filled the trumpet of many voiced fame; such a tale rendered my
longer stay at Vienna, away from the friend of my youth, intolerable. Now I
must fulfil my vow; now range myself at his side, and be his ally and support
till death. Farewell to courtly pleasure; to politic intrigue; to the maze of
passion and folly! All hail, England! Native England, receive thy child! thou
art the scene of all my hopes, the mighty theatre on which is acted the only
drama that can, heart and soul, bear me along with it in its development. A
voice most irresistible, a power omnipotent, drew me thither. After an absence
of two years I landed on its shores, not daring to make any inquiries, fearful
of every remark. My first visit would be to my sister, who inhabited a little
cottage, a part of Adrian’s gift, on the borders of Windsor Forest. From
her I should learn the truth concerning our protector; I should hear why she
had withdrawn from the protection of the Princess Evadne, and be instructed as
to the influence which this overtopping and towering Raymond exercised over the
fortunes of my friend.

I had never before been in the neighbourhood of Windsor; the fertility and
beauty of the country around now struck me with admiration, which encreased as
I approached the antique wood. The ruins of majestic oaks which had grown,
flourished, and decayed during the progress of centuries, marked where the
limits of the forest once reached, while the shattered palings and neglected
underwood shewed that this part was deserted for the younger plantations, which
owed their birth to the beginning of the nineteenth century, and now stood in
the pride of maturity. Perdita’s humble dwelling was situated on the
skirts of the most ancient portion; before it was stretched Bishopgate Heath,
which towards the east appeared interminable, and was bounded to the west by
Chapel Wood and the grove of Virginia Water. Behind, the cottage was shadowed
by the venerable fathers of the forest, under which the deer came to graze, and
which for the most part hollow and decayed, formed fantastic groups that
contrasted with the regular beauty of the younger trees. These, the offspring
of a later period, stood erect and seemed ready to advance fearlessly into
coming time; while those out worn stragglers, blasted and broke, clung to each
other, their weak boughs sighing as the wind buffetted them—a
weather-beaten crew.

A light railing surrounded the garden of the cottage, which, low-roofed, seemed
to submit to the majesty of nature, and cower amidst the venerable remains of
forgotten time. Flowers, the children of the spring, adorned her garden and
casements; in the midst of lowliness there was an air of elegance which spoke
the graceful taste of the inmate. With a beating heart I entered the enclosure;
as I stood at the entrance, I heard her voice, melodious as it had ever been,
which before I saw her assured me of her welfare.

A moment more and Perdita appeared; she stood before me in the fresh bloom of
youthful womanhood, different from and yet the same as the mountain girl I had
left. Her eyes could not be deeper than they were in childhood, nor her
countenance more expressive; but the expression was changed and improved;
intelligence sat on her brow; when she smiled her face was embellished by the
softest sensibility, and her low, modulated voice seemed tuned by love. Her
person was formed in the most feminine proportions; she was not tall, but her
mountain life had given freedom to her motions, so that her light step scarce
made her foot-fall heard as she tript across the hall to meet me. When we had
parted, I had clasped her to my bosom with unrestrained warmth; we met again,
and new feelings were awakened; when each beheld the other, childhood passed,
as full grown actors on this changeful scene. The pause was but for a moment;
the flood of association and natural feeling which had been checked, again
rushed in full tide upon our hearts, and with tenderest emotion we were swiftly
locked in each other’s embrace.

This burst of passionate feeling over, with calmed thoughts we sat together,
talking of the past and present. I alluded to the coldness of her letters; but
the few minutes we had spent together sufficiently explained the origin of
this. New feelings had arisen within her, which she was unable to express in
writing to one whom she had only known in childhood; but we saw each other
again, and our intimacy was renewed as if nothing had intervened to check it. I
detailed the incidents of my sojourn abroad, and then questioned her as to the
changes that had taken place at home, the causes of Adrian’s absence, and
her secluded life.

The tears that suffused my sister’s eyes when I mentioned our friend, and
her heightened colour seemed to vouch for the truth of the reports that had
reached me. But their import was too terrible for me to give instant credit to
my suspicion. Was there indeed anarchy in the sublime universe of
Adrian’s thoughts, did madness scatter the well-appointed legions, and
was he no longer the lord of his own soul? Beloved friend, this ill world was
no clime for your gentle spirit; you delivered up its governance to false
humanity, which stript it of its leaves ere winter-time, and laid bare its
quivering life to the evil ministration of roughest winds. Have those gentle
eyes, those “channels of the soul” lost their meaning, or do they
only in their glare disclose the horrible tale of its aberrations? Does that
voice no longer “discourse excellent music?” Horrible, most
horrible! I veil my eyes in terror of the change, and gushing tears bear
witness to my sympathy for this unimaginable ruin.

In obedience to my request Perdita detailed the melancholy circumstances that
led to this event.

The frank and unsuspicious mind of Adrian, gifted as it was by every natural
grace, endowed with transcendant powers of intellect, unblemished by the shadow
of defect (unless his dreadless independence of thought was to be construed
into one), was devoted, even as a victim to sacrifice, to his love for Evadne.
He entrusted to her keeping the treasures of his soul, his aspirations after
excellence, and his plans for the improvement of mankind. As manhood dawned
upon him, his schemes and theories, far from being changed by personal and
prudential motives, acquired new strength from the powers he felt arise within
him; and his love for Evadne became deep-rooted, as he each day became more
certain that the path he pursued was full of difficulty, and that he must seek
his reward, not in the applause or gratitude of his fellow creatures, hardly in
the success of his plans, but in the approbation of his own heart, and in her
love and sympathy, which was to lighten every toil and recompence every
sacrifice.

In solitude, and through many wanderings afar from the haunts of men, he
matured his views for the reform of the English government, and the improvement
of the people. It would have been well if he had concealed his sentiments,
until he had come into possession of the power which would secure their
practical development. But he was impatient of the years that must intervene,
he was frank of heart and fearless. He gave not only a brief denial to his
mother’s schemes, but published his intention of using his influence to
diminish the power of the aristocracy, to effect a greater equalization of
wealth and privilege, and to introduce a perfect system of republican
government into England. At first his mother treated his theories as the wild
ravings of inexperience. But they were so systematically arranged, and his
arguments so well supported, that though still in appearance incredulous, she
began to fear him. She tried to reason with him, and finding him inflexible,
learned to hate him.

Strange to say, this feeling was infectious. His enthusiasm for good which did
not exist; his contempt for the sacredness of authority; his ardour and
imprudence were all at the antipodes of the usual routine of life; the worldly
feared him; the young and inexperienced did not understand the lofty severity
of his moral views, and disliked him as a being different from themselves.
Evadne entered but coldly into his systems. She thought he did well to assert
his own will, but she wished that will to have been more intelligible to the
multitude. She had none of the spirit of a martyr, and did not incline to share
the shame and defeat of a fallen patriot. She was aware of the purity of his
motives, the generosity of his disposition, his true and ardent attachment to
her; and she entertained a great affection for him. He repaid this spirit of
kindness with the fondest gratitude, and made her the treasure-house of all his
hopes.

At this time Lord Raymond returned from Greece. No two persons could be more
opposite than Adrian and he. With all the incongruities of his character,
Raymond was emphatically a man of the world. His passions were violent; as
these often obtained the mastery over him, he could not always square his
conduct to the obvious line of self-interest, but self-gratification at least
was the paramount object with him. He looked on the structure of society as but
a part of the machinery which supported the web on which his life was traced.
The earth was spread out as an highway for him; the heavens built up as a
canopy for him.

Adrian felt that he made a part of a great whole. He owned affinity not only
with mankind, but all nature was akin to him; the mountains and sky were his
friends; the winds of heaven and the offspring of earth his playmates; while he
the focus only of this mighty mirror, felt his life mingle with the universe of
existence. His soul was sympathy, and dedicated to the worship of beauty and
excellence. Adrian and Raymond now came into contact, and a spirit of aversion
rose between them. Adrian despised the narrow views of the politician, and
Raymond held in supreme contempt the benevolent visions of the philanthropist.

With the coming of Raymond was formed the storm that laid waste at one fell
blow the gardens of delight and sheltered paths which Adrian fancied that he
had secured to himself, as a refuge from defeat and contumely. Raymond, the
deliverer of Greece, the graceful soldier, who bore in his mien a tinge of all
that, peculiar to her native clime, Evadne cherished as most dear—
Raymond was loved by Evadne. Overpowered by her new sensations, she did not
pause to examine them, or to regulate her conduct by any sentiments except the
tyrannical one which suddenly usurped the empire of her heart. She yielded to
its influence, and the too natural consequence in a mind unattuned to soft
emotions was, that the attentions of Adrian became distasteful to her. She grew
capricious; her gentle conduct towards him was exchanged for asperity and
repulsive coldness. When she perceived the wild or pathetic appeal of his
expressive countenance, she would relent, and for a while resume her ancient
kindness. But these fluctuations shook to its depths the soul of the sensitive
youth; he no longer deemed the world subject to him, because he possessed
Evadne’s love; he felt in every nerve that the dire storms of the mental
universe were about to attack his fragile being, which quivered at the
expectation of its advent.

Perdita, who then resided with Evadne, saw the torture that Adrian endured. She
loved him as a kind elder brother; a relation to guide, protect, and instruct
her, without the too frequent tyranny of parental authority. She adored his
virtues, and with mixed contempt and indignation she saw Evadne pile drear
sorrow on his head, for the sake of one who hardly marked her. In his solitary
despair Adrian would often seek my sister, and in covered terms express his
misery, while fortitude and agony divided the throne of his mind. Soon, alas!
was one to conquer. Anger made no part of his emotion. With whom should he be
angry? Not with Raymond, who was unconscious of the misery he occasioned; not
with Evadne, for her his soul wept tears of blood—poor, mistaken girl,
slave not tyrant was she, and amidst his own anguish he grieved for her future
destiny. Once a writing of his fell into Perdita’s hands; it was blotted
with tears—well might any blot it with the like—

“Life”—it began thus—“is not the thing romance
writers describe it; going through the measures of a dance, and after various
evolutions arriving at a conclusion, when the dancers may sit down and repose.
While there is life there is action and change. We go on, each thought linked
to the one which was its parent, each act to a previous act. No joy or sorrow
dies barren of progeny, which for ever generated and generating, weaves the
chain that make our life:

Un dia llama à otro dia
y asi llama, y encadena
llanto à llanto, y pena à pena.

Truly disappointment is the guardian deity of human life; she sits at the
threshold of unborn time, and marshals the events as they come forth. Once my
heart sat lightly in my bosom; all the beauty of the world was doubly
beautiful, irradiated by the sun-light shed from my own soul. O wherefore are
love and ruin for ever joined in this our mortal dream? So that when we make
our hearts a lair for that gently seeming beast, its companion enters with it,
and pitilessly lays waste what might have been an home and a shelter.”

By degrees his health was shaken by his misery, and then his intellect yielded
to the same tyranny. His manners grew wild; he was sometimes ferocious,
sometimes absorbed in speechless melancholy. Suddenly Evadne quitted London for
Paris; he followed, and overtook her when the vessel was about to sail; none
knew what passed between them, but Perdita had never seen him since; he lived
in seclusion, no one knew where, attended by such persons as his mother
selected for that purpose.

CHAPTER IV.

The next day Lord Raymond called at Perdita’s cottage, on his way to
Windsor Castle. My sister’s heightened colour and sparkling eyes half
revealed her secret to me. He was perfectly self-possessed; he accosted us both
with courtesy, seemed immediately to enter into our feelings, and to make one
with us. I scanned his physiognomy, which varied as he spoke, yet was beautiful
in every change. The usual expression of his eyes was soft, though at times he
could make them even glare with ferocity; his complexion was colourless; and
every trait spoke predominate self-will; his smile was pleasing, though disdain
too often curled his lips—lips which to female eyes were the very throne
of beauty and love. His voice, usually gentle, often startled you by a sharp
discordant note, which shewed that his usual low tone was rather the work of
study than nature. Thus full of contradictions, unbending yet haughty, gentle
yet fierce, tender and again neglectful, he by some strange art found easy
entrance to the admiration and affection of women; now caressing and now
tyrannizing over them according to his mood, but in every change a despot.

At the present time Raymond evidently wished to appear amiable. Wit, hilarity,
and deep observation were mingled in his talk, rendering every sentence that he
uttered as a flash of light. He soon conquered my latent distaste; I
endeavoured to watch him and Perdita, and to keep in mind every thing I had
heard to his disadvantage. But all appeared so ingenuous, and all was so
fascinating, that I forgot everything except the pleasure his society afforded
me. Under the idea of initiating me in the scene of English politics and
society, of which I was soon to become a part, he narrated a number of
anecdotes, and sketched many characters; his discourse, rich and varied, flowed
on, pervading all my senses with pleasure. But for one thing he would have been
completely triumphant. He alluded to Adrian, and spoke of him with that
disparagement that the worldly wise always attach to enthusiasm. He perceived
the cloud gathering, and tried to dissipate it; but the strength of my feelings
would not permit me to pass thus lightly over this sacred subject; so I said
emphatically, “Permit me to remark, that I am devotedly attached to the
Earl of Windsor; he is my best friend and benefactor. I reverence his goodness,
I accord with his opinions, and bitterly lament his present, and I trust
temporary, illness. That illness, from its peculiarity, makes it painful to me
beyond words to hear him mentioned, unless in terms of respect and
affection.”

Raymond replied; but there was nothing conciliatory in his reply. I saw that in
his heart he despised those dedicated to any but worldly idols. “Every
man,” he said, “dreams about something, love, honour, and pleasure;
you dream of friendship, and devote yourself to a maniac; well, if that be your
vocation, doubtless you are in the right to follow it.”—

Some reflection seemed to sting him, and the spasm of pain that for a moment
convulsed his countenance, checked my indignation. “Happy are
dreamers,” he continued, “so that they be not awakened! Would I
could dream! but ‘broad and garish day’ is the element in which I
live; the dazzling glare of reality inverts the scene for me. Even the ghost of
friendship has departed, and love”——He broke off; nor could I
guess whether the disdain that curled his lip was directed against the passion,
or against himself for being its slave.

This account may be taken as a sample of my intercourse with Lord Raymond. I
became intimate with him, and each day afforded me occasion to admire more and
more his powerful and versatile talents, that together with his eloquence,
which was graceful and witty, and his wealth now immense, caused him to be
feared, loved, and hated beyond any other man in England.

My descent, which claimed interest, if not respect, my former connection with
Adrian, the favour of the ambassador, whose secretary I had been, and now my
intimacy with Lord Raymond, gave me easy access to the fashionable and
political circles of England. To my inexperience we at first appeared on the
eve of a civil war; each party was violent, acrimonious, and unyielding.
Parliament was divided by three factions, aristocrats, democrats, and
royalists. After Adrian’s declared predeliction to the republican form of
government, the latter party had nearly died away, chiefless, guideless; but,
when Lord Raymond came forward as its leader, it revived with redoubled force.
Some were royalists from prejudice and ancient affection, and there were many
moderately inclined who feared alike the capricious tyranny of the popular
party, and the unbending despotism of the aristocrats. More than a third of the
members ranged themselves under Raymond, and their number was perpetually
encreasing. The aristocrats built their hopes on their preponderant wealth and
influence; the reformers on the force of the nation itself; the debates were
violent, more violent the discourses held by each knot of politicians as they
assembled to arrange their measures. Opprobrious epithets were bandied about,
resistance even to the death threatened; meetings of the populace disturbed the
quiet order of the country; except in war, how could all this end? Even as the
destructive flames were ready to break forth, I saw them shrink back; allayed
by the absence of the military, by the aversion entertained by every one to any
violence, save that of speech, and by the cordial politeness and even
friendship of the hostile leaders when they met in private society. I was from
a thousand motives induced to attend minutely to the course of events, and
watch each turn with intense anxiety.

I could not but perceive that Perdita loved Raymond; methought also that he
regarded the fair daughter of Verney with admiration and tenderness. Yet I knew
that he was urging forward his marriage with the presumptive heiress of the
Earldom of Windsor, with keen expectation of the advantages that would thence
accrue to him. All the ex-queen’s friends were his friends; no week
passed that he did not hold consultations with her at Windsor.

I had never seen the sister of Adrian. I had heard that she was lovely,
amiable, and fascinating. Wherefore should I see her? There are times when we
have an indefinable sentiment of impending change for better or for worse, to
arise from an event; and, be it for better or for worse, we fear the change,
and shun the event. For this reason I avoided this high-born damsel. To me she
was everything and nothing; her very name mentioned by another made me start
and tremble; the endless discussion concerning her union with Lord Raymond was
real agony to me. Methought that, Adrian withdrawn from active life, and this
beauteous Idris, a victim probably to her mother’s ambitious schemes, I
ought to come forward to protect her from undue influence, guard her from
unhappiness, and secure to her freedom of choice, the right of every human
being. Yet how was I to do this? She herself would disdain my interference.
Since then I must be an object of indifference or contempt to her, better, far
better avoid her, nor expose myself before her and the scornful world to the
chance of playing the mad game of a fond, foolish Icarus. One day, several
months after my return to England, I quitted London to visit my sister. Her
society was my chief solace and delight; and my spirits always rose at the
expectation of seeing her. Her conversation was full of pointed remark and
discernment; in her pleasant alcove, redolent with sweetest flowers, adorned by
magnificent casts, antique vases, and copies of the finest pictures of Raphael,
Correggio, and Claude, painted by herself, I fancied myself in a fairy retreat
untainted by and inaccessible to the noisy contentions of politicians and the
frivolous pursuits of fashion. On this occasion, my sister was not alone; nor
could I fail to recognise her companion: it was Idris, the till now unseen
object of my mad idolatry.

In what fitting terms of wonder and delight, in what choice expression and soft
flow of language, can I usher in the loveliest, wisest, best? How in poor
assemblage of words convey the halo of glory that surrounded her, the thousand
graces that waited unwearied on her. The first thing that struck you on
beholding that charming countenance was its perfect goodness and frankness;
candour sat upon her brow, simplicity in her eyes, heavenly benignity in her
smile. Her tall slim figure bent gracefully as a poplar to the breezy west, and
her gait, goddess-like, was as that of a winged angel new alit from
heaven’s high floor; the pearly fairness of her complexion was stained by
a pure suffusion; her voice resembled the low, subdued tenor of a flute. It is
easiest perhaps to describe by contrast. I have detailed the perfections of my
sister; and yet she was utterly unlike Idris. Perdita, even where she loved,
was reserved and timid; Idris was frank and confiding. The one recoiled to
solitude, that she might there entrench herself from disappointment and injury;
the other walked forth in open day, believing that none would harm her.
Wordsworth has compared a beloved female to two fair objects in nature; but his
lines always appeared to me rather a contrast than a similitude:

A violet by a mossy stone
    Half hidden from the eye,
Fair as a star when only one
    Is shining in the sky.

Such a violet was sweet Perdita, trembling to entrust herself to the very air,
cowering from observation, yet betrayed by her excellences; and repaying with a
thousand graces the labour of those who sought her in her lonely bye-path.
Idris was as the star, set in single splendour in the dim anadem of balmy
evening; ready to enlighten and delight the subject world, shielded herself
from every taint by her unimagined distance from all that was not like herself
akin to heaven.

I found this vision of beauty in Perdita’s alcove, in earnest
conversation with its inmate. When my sister saw me, she rose, and taking my
hand, said, “He is here, even at our wish; this is Lionel, my
brother.” Idris arose also, and bent on me her eyes of celestial blue,
and with grace peculiar said—“You hardly need an introduction; we
have a picture, highly valued by my father, which declares at once your name.
Verney, you will acknowledge this tie, and as my brother’s friend, I feel
that I may trust you.”

Then, with lids humid with a tear and trembling voice, she continued—
“Dear friends, do not think it strange that now, visiting you for the
first time, I ask your assistance, and confide my wishes and fears to you. To
you alone do I dare speak; I have heard you commended by impartial spectators;
you are my brother’s friends, therefore you must be mine. What can I say?
if you refuse to aid me, I am lost indeed!” She cast up her eyes, while
wonder held her auditors mute; then, as if carried away by her feelings, she
cried—“My brother! beloved, ill-fated Adrian! how speak of your
misfortunes? Doubtless you have both heard the current tale; perhaps believe
the slander; but he is not mad! Were an angel from the foot of God’s
throne to assert it, never, never would I believe it. He is wronged, betrayed,
imprisoned—save him! Verney, you must do this; seek him out in whatever
part of the island he is immured; find him, rescue him from his persecutors,
restore him to himself, to me—on the wide earth I have none to love but
only him!”

Her earnest appeal, so sweetly and passionately expressed, filled me with
wonder and sympathy; and, when she added, with thrilling voice and look,
“Do you consent to undertake this enterprize?” I vowed, with energy
and truth, to devote myself in life and death to the restoration and welfare of
Adrian. We then conversed on the plan I should pursue, and discussed the
probable means of discovering his residence. While we were in earnest
discourse, Lord Raymond entered unannounced: I saw Perdita tremble and grow
deadly pale, and the cheeks of Idris glow with purest blushes. He must have
been astonished at our conclave, disturbed by it I should have thought; but
nothing of this appeared; he saluted my companions, and addressed me with a
cordial greeting. Idris appeared suspended for a moment, and then with extreme
sweetness, she said, “Lord Raymond, I confide in your goodness and
honour.”

Smiling haughtily, he bent his head, and replied, with emphasis, “Do you
indeed confide, Lady Idris?”

She endeavoured to read his thought, and then answered with dignity, “As
you please. It is certainly best not to compromise oneself by any
concealment.”

“Pardon me,” he replied, “if I have offended. Whether you
trust me or not, rely on my doing my utmost to further your wishes, whatever
they may be.”

Idris smiled her thanks, and rose to take leave. Lord Raymond requested
permission to accompany her to Windsor Castle, to which she consented, and they
quitted the cottage together. My sister and I were left—truly like two
fools, who fancied that they had obtained a golden treasure, till daylight
shewed it to be lead—two silly, luckless flies, who had played in
sunbeams and were caught in a spider’s web. I leaned against the
casement, and watched those two glorious creatures, till they disappeared in
the forest-glades; and then I turned. Perdita had not moved; her eyes fixed on
the ground, her cheeks pale, her very lips white, motionless and rigid, every
feature stamped by woe, she sat. Half frightened, I would have taken her hand;
but she shudderingly withdrew it, and strove to collect herself. I entreated
her to speak to me: “Not now,” she replied, “nor do you speak
to me, my dear Lionel; you can say nothing, for you know nothing. I will
see you to-morrow; in the meantime, adieu!” She rose, and walked from the
room; but pausing at the door, and leaning against it, as if her over-busy
thoughts had taken from her the power of supporting herself, she said,
“Lord Raymond will probably return. Will you tell him that he must excuse
me to-day, for I am not well. I will see him to-morrow if he wishes it, and you
also. You had better return to London with him; you can there make the
enquiries agreed upon, concerning the Earl of Windsor and visit me again
to-morrow, before you proceed on your journey—till then, farewell!”

She spoke falteringly, and concluded with a heavy sigh. I gave my assent to her
request; and she left me. I felt as if, from the order of the systematic world,
I had plunged into chaos, obscure, contrary, unintelligible. That Raymond
should marry Idris was more than ever intolerable; yet my passion, though a
giant from its birth, was too strange, wild, and impracticable, for me to feel
at once the misery I perceived in Perdita. How should I act? She had not
confided in me; I could not demand an explanation from Raymond without the
hazard of betraying what was perhaps her most treasured secret. I would obtain
the truth from her the following day—in the mean time—But, while I
was occupied by multiplying reflections, Lord Raymond returned. He asked for my
sister; and I delivered her message. After musing on it for a moment, he asked
me if I were about to return to London, and if I would accompany him: I
consented. He was full of thought, and remained silent during a considerable
part of our ride; at length he said, “I must apologize to you for my
abstraction; the truth is, Ryland’s motion comes on to-night, and I am
considering my reply.”

Ryland was the leader of the popular party, a hard-headed man, and in his way
eloquent; he had obtained leave to bring in a bill making it treason to
endeavour to change the present state of the English government and the
standing laws of the republic. This attack was directed against Raymond and his
machinations for the restoration of the monarchy.

Raymond asked me if I would accompany him to the House that evening. I
remembered my pursuit for intelligence concerning Adrian; and, knowing that my
time would be fully occupied, I excused myself. “Nay,” said my
companion, “I can free you from your present impediment. You are going to
make enquiries concerning the Earl of Windsor. I can answer them at once, he is
at the Duke of Athol’s seat at Dunkeld. On the first approach of his
disorder, he travelled about from one place to another; until, arriving at that
romantic seclusion he refused to quit it, and we made arrangements with the
Duke for his continuing there.”

I was hurt by the careless tone with which he conveyed this information, and
replied coldly: “I am obliged to you for your intelligence, and will
avail myself of it.”

“You shall, Verney,” said he, “and if you continue of the
same mind, I will facilitate your views. But first witness, I beseech you, the
result of this night’s contest, and the triumph I am about to achieve, if
I may so call it, while I fear that victory is to me defeat. What can I do? My
dearest hopes appear to be near their fulfilment. The ex-queen gives me Idris;
Adrian is totally unfitted to succeed to the earldom, and that earldom in my
hands becomes a kingdom. By the reigning God it is true; the paltry earldom of
Windsor shall no longer content him, who will inherit the rights which must for
ever appertain to the person who possesses it. The Countess can never forget
that she has been a queen, and she disdains to leave a diminished inheritance
to her children; her power and my wit will rebuild the throne, and this brow
will be clasped by a kingly diadem.—I can do this—I can marry
Idris.”—-

He stopped abruptly, his countenance darkened, and its expression changed again
and again under the influence of internal passion. I asked, “Does Lady
Idris love you?”

“What a question,” replied he laughing. “She will of course,
as I shall her, when we are married.”

“You begin late,” said I, ironically, “marriage is usually
considered the grave, and not the cradle of love. So you are about to love her,
but do not already?”

“Do not catechise me, Lionel; I will do my duty by her, be assured. Love!
I must steel my heart against that; expel it from its tower of strength,
barricade it out: the fountain of love must cease to play, its waters be dried
up, and all passionate thoughts attendant on it die—that is to say, the
love which would rule me, not that which I rule. Idris is a gentle, pretty,
sweet little girl; it is impossible not to have an affection for her, and I
have a very sincere one; only do not speak of love —love, the tyrant and
the tyrant-queller; love, until now my conqueror, now my slave; the hungry
fire, the untameable beast, the fanged snake—no—no—I will
have nothing to do with that love. Tell me, Lionel, do you consent that I
should marry this young lady?”

He bent his keen eyes upon me, and my uncontrollable heart swelled in my bosom.
I replied in a calm voice—but how far from calm was the thought imaged by
my still words—“Never! I can never consent that Lady Idris should
be united to one who does not love her.”

“Because you love her yourself.”

“Your Lordship might have spared that taunt; I do not, dare not love
her.”

“At least,” he continued haughtily, “she does not love you. I
would not marry a reigning sovereign, were I not sure that her heart was free.
But, O, Lionel! a kingdom is a word of might, and gently sounding are the terms
that compose the style of royalty. Were not the mightiest men of the olden
times kings? Alexander was a king; Solomon, the wisest of men, was a king;
Napoleon was a king; Cæsar died in his attempt to become one, and Cromwell,
the puritan and king-killer, aspired to regality. The father of Adrian yielded
up the already broken sceptre of England; but I will rear the fallen plant,
join its dismembered frame, and exalt it above all the flowers of the field.

“You need not wonder that I freely discover Adrian’s abode. Do not
suppose that I am wicked or foolish enough to found my purposed sovereignty on
a fraud, and one so easily discovered as the truth or falsehood of the
Earl’s insanity. I am just come from him. Before I decided on my marriage
with Idris, I resolved to see him myself again, and to judge of the probability
of his recovery.—He is irrecoverably mad.”

I gasped for breath—

“I will not detail to you,” continued Raymond, “the
melancholy particulars. You shall see him, and judge for yourself; although I
fear this visit, useless to him, will be insufferably painful to you. It has
weighed on my spirits ever since. Excellent and gentle as he is even in the
downfall of his reason, I do not worship him as you do, but I would give all my
hopes of a crown and my right hand to boot, to see him restored to
himself.”

His voice expressed the deepest compassion: “Thou most unaccountable
being,” I cried, “whither will thy actions tend, in all this maze
of purpose in which thou seemest lost?”

“Whither indeed? To a crown, a golden be-gemmed crown, I hope; and yet I
dare not trust and though I dream of a crown and wake for one, ever and anon a
busy devil whispers to me, that it is but a fool’s cap that I seek, and
that were I wise, I should trample on it, and take in its stead, that which is
worth all the crowns of the east and presidentships of the west.”

“And what is that?”

“If I do make it my choice, then you shall know; at present I dare not
speak, even think of it.”

Again he was silent, and after a pause turned to me laughingly. When scorn did
not inspire his mirth, when it was genuine gaiety that painted his features
with a joyous expression, his beauty became super-eminent, divine.
“Verney,” said he, “my first act when I become King of
England, will be to unite with the Greeks, take Constantinople, and subdue all
Asia. I intend to be a warrior, a conqueror; Napoleon’s name shall vail
to mine; and enthusiasts, instead of visiting his rocky grave, and exalting the
merits of the fallen, shall adore my majesty, and magnify my illustrious
achievements.”

I listened to Raymond with intense interest. Could I be other than all ear, to
one who seemed to govern the whole earth in his grasping imagination, and who
only quailed when he attempted to rule himself. Then on his word and will
depended my own happiness—the fate of all dear to me. I endeavoured to
divine the concealed meaning of his words. Perdita’s name was not
mentioned; yet I could not doubt that love for her caused the vacillation of
purpose that he exhibited. And who was so worthy of love as my noble-minded
sister? Who deserved the hand of this self-exalted king more than she whose
glance belonged to a queen of nations? who loved him, as he did her;
notwithstanding that disappointment quelled her passion, and ambition held
strong combat with his.

We went together to the House in the evening. Raymond, while he knew that his
plans and prospects were to be discussed and decided during the expected
debate, was gay and careless. An hum, like that of ten thousand hives of
swarming bees, stunned us as we entered the coffee-room. Knots of politicians
were assembled with anxious brows and loud or deep voices. The aristocratical
party, the richest and most influential men in England, appeared less agitated
than the others, for the question was to be discussed without their
interference. Near the fire was Ryland and his supporters. Ryland was a man of
obscure birth and of immense wealth, inherited from his father, who had been a
manufacturer. He had witnessed, when a young man, the abdication of the king,
and the amalgamation of the two houses of Lords and Commons; he had sympathized
with these popular encroachments, and it had been the business of his life to
consolidate and encrease them. Since then, the influence of the landed
proprietors had augmented; and at first Ryland was not sorry to observe the
machinations of Lord Raymond, which drew off many of his opponent’s
partizans. But the thing was now going too far. The poorer nobility hailed the
return of sovereignty, as an event which would restore them to their power and
rights, now lost. The half extinct spirit of royalty roused itself in the minds
of men; and they, willing slaves, self-constituted subjects, were ready to bend
their necks to the yoke. Some erect and manly spirits still remained, pillars
of state; but the word republic had grown stale to the vulgar ear; and
many—the event would prove whether it was a majority— pined for the
tinsel and show of royalty. Ryland was roused to resistance; he asserted that
his sufferance alone had permitted the encrease of this party; but the time for
indulgence was passed, and with one motion of his arm he would sweep away the
cobwebs that blinded his countrymen.

When Raymond entered the coffee-room, his presence was hailed by his friends
almost with a shout. They gathered round him, counted their numbers, and
detailed the reasons why they were now to receive an addition of such and such
members, who had not yet declared themselves. Some trifling business of the
House having been gone through, the leaders took their seats in the chamber;
the clamour of voices continued, till Ryland arose to speak, and then the
slightest whispered observation was audible. All eyes were fixed upon him as he
stood—ponderous of frame, sonorous of voice, and with a manner which,
though not graceful, was impressive. I turned from his marked, iron countenance
to Raymond, whose face, veiled by a smile, would not betray his care; yet his
lips quivered somewhat, and his hand clasped the bench on which he sat, with a
convulsive strength that made the muscles start again.

Ryland began by praising the present state of the British empire. He recalled
past years to their memory; the miserable contentions which in the time of our
fathers arose almost to civil war, the abdication of the late king, and the
foundation of the republic. He described this republic; shewed how it gave
privilege to each individual in the state, to rise to consequence, and even to
temporary sovereignty. He compared the royal and republican spirit; shewed how
the one tended to enslave the minds of men; while all the institutions of the
other served to raise even the meanest among us to something great and good. He
shewed how England had become powerful, and its inhabitants valiant and wise,
by means of the freedom they enjoyed. As he spoke, every heart swelled with
pride, and every cheek glowed with delight to remember, that each one there was
English, and that each supported and contributed to the happy state of things
now commemorated. Ryland’s fervour increased—his eyes lighted
up—his voice assumed the tone of passion. There was one man, he
continued, who wished to alter all this, and bring us back to our days of
impotence and contention:—one man, who would dare arrogate the honour
which was due to all who claimed England as their birthplace, and set his name
and style above the name and style of his country. I saw at this juncture that
Raymond changed colour; his eyes were withdrawn from the orator, and cast on
the ground; the listeners turned from one to the other; but in the meantime the
speaker’s voice filled their ears—the thunder of his denunciations
influenced their senses. The very boldness of his language gave him weight;
each knew that he spoke truth—a truth known, but not acknowledged. He
tore from reality the mask with which she had been clothed; and the purposes of
Raymond, which before had crept around, ensnaring by stealth, now stood a
hunted stag—even at bay—as all perceived who watched the
irrepressible changes of his countenance. Ryland ended by moving, that any
attempt to re-erect the kingly power should be declared treason, and he a
traitor who should endeavour to change the present form of government. Cheers
and loud acclamations followed the close of his speech.

After his motion had been seconded, Lord Raymond rose,—his countenance
bland, his voice softly melodious, his manner soothing, his grace and sweetness
came like the mild breathing of a flute, after the loud, organ-like voice of
his adversary. He rose, he said, to speak in favour of the honourable
member’s motion, with one slight amendment subjoined. He was ready to go
back to old times, and commemorate the contests of our fathers, and the
monarch’s abdication. Nobly and greatly, he said, had the illustrious and
last sovereign of England sacrificed himself to the apparent good of his
country, and divested himself of a power which could only be maintained by the
blood of his subjects—these subjects named so no more, these, his friends
and equals, had in gratitude conferred certain favours and distinctions on him
and his family for ever. An ample estate was allotted to them, and they took
the first rank among the peers of Great Britain. Yet it might be conjectured
that they had not forgotten their ancient heritage; and it was hard that his
heir should suffer alike with any other pretender, if he attempted to regain
what by ancient right and inheritance belonged to him. He did not say that he
should favour such an attempt; but he did say that such an attempt would be
venial; and, if the aspirant did not go so far as to declare war, and erect a
standard in the kingdom, his fault ought to be regarded with an indulgent eye.
In his amendment he proposed, that an exception should be made in the bill in
favour of any person who claimed the sovereign power in right of the earls of
Windsor. Nor did Raymond make an end without drawing in vivid and glowing
colours, the splendour of a kingdom, in opposition to the commercial spirit of
republicanism. He asserted, that each individual under the English monarchy,
was then as now, capable of attaining high rank and power—with one only
exception, that of the function of chief magistrate; higher and nobler rank,
than a bartering, timorous commonwealth could afford. And for this one
exception, to what did it amount? The nature of riches and influence forcibly
confined the list of candidates to a few of the wealthiest; and it was much to
be feared, that the ill-humour and contention generated by this triennial
struggle, would counterbalance its advantages in impartial eyes. I can ill
record the flow of language and graceful turns of expression, the wit and easy
raillery that gave vigour and influence to his speech. His manner, timid at
first, became firm—his changeful face was lit up to superhuman
brilliancy; his voice, various as music, was like that enchanting.

It were useless to record the debate that followed this harangue. Party
speeches were delivered, which clothed the question in cant, and veiled its
simple meaning in a woven wind of words. The motion was lost; Ryland withdrew
in rage and despair; and Raymond, gay and exulting, retired to dream of his
future kingdom.

CHAPTER IV.

Is there such a feeling as love at first sight? And if there be, in what does
its nature differ from love founded in long observation and slow growth?
Perhaps its effects are not so permanent; but they are, while they last, as
violent and intense. We walk the pathless mazes of society, vacant of joy, till
we hold this clue, leading us through that labyrinth to paradise. Our nature
dim, like to an unlighted torch, sleeps in formless blank till the fire attain
it; this life of life, this light to moon, and glory to the sun. What does it
matter, whether the fire be struck from flint and steel, nourished with care
into a flame, slowly communicated to the dark wick, or whether swiftly the
radiant power of light and warmth passes from a kindred power, and shines at
once the beacon and the hope. In the deepest fountain of my heart the pulses
were stirred; around, above, beneath, the clinging Memory as a cloak enwrapt
me. In no one moment of coming time did I feel as I had done in time gone by.
The spirit of Idris hovered in the air I breathed; her eyes were ever and for
ever bent on mine; her remembered smile blinded my faint gaze, and caused me to
walk as one, not in eclipse, not in darkness and vacancy—but in a new and
brilliant light, too novel, too dazzling for my human senses. On every leaf, on
every small division of the universe, (as on the hyacinth ας is engraved) was
imprinted the talisman of my existence—SHE LIVES! SHE IS! —I had
not time yet to analyze my feeling, to take myself to task, and leash in the
tameless passion; all was one idea, one feeling, one knowledge —it was my
life!

But the die was cast—Raymond would marry Idris. The merry marriage bells
rung in my ears; I heard the nation’s gratulation which followed the
union; the ambitious noble uprose with swift eagle-flight, from the lowly
ground to regal supremacy—and to the love of Idris. Yet, not so! She did
not love him; she had called me her friend; she had smiled on me; to me she had
entrusted her heart’s dearest hope, the welfare of Adrian. This
reflection thawed my congealing blood, and again the tide of life and love
flowed impetuously onward, again to ebb as my busy thoughts changed.

The debate had ended at three in the morning. My soul was in tumults; I
traversed the streets with eager rapidity. Truly, I was mad that night—
love—which I have named a giant from its birth, wrestled with despair! My
heart, the field of combat, was wounded by the iron heel of the one, watered by
the gushing tears of the other. Day, hateful to me, dawned; I retreated to my
lodgings—I threw myself on a couch—I slept—was it
sleep?—for thought was still alive—love and despair struggled
still, and I writhed with unendurable pain.

I awoke half stupefied; I felt a heavy oppression on me, but knew not
wherefore; I entered, as it were, the council-chamber of my brain, and
questioned the various ministers of thought therein assembled; too soon I
remembered all; too soon my limbs quivered beneath the tormenting power; soon,
too soon, I knew myself a slave!

Suddenly, unannounced, Lord Raymond entered my apartment. He came in gaily,
singing the Tyrolese song of liberty; noticed me with a gracious nod, and threw
himself on a sopha opposite the copy of a bust of the Apollo Belvidere. After
one or two trivial remarks, to which I sullenly replied, he suddenly cried,
looking at the bust, “I am called like that victor! Not a bad idea; the
head will serve for my new coinage, and be an omen to all dutiful subjects of
my future success.”

He said this in his most gay, yet benevolent manner, and smiled, not
disdainfully, but in playful mockery of himself. Then his countenance suddenly
darkened, and in that shrill tone peculiar to himself, he cried, “I
fought a good battle last night; higher conquest the plains of Greece never saw
me achieve. Now I am the first man in the state, burthen of every ballad, and
object of old women’s mumbled devotions. What are your meditations? You,
who fancy that you can read the human soul, as your native lake reads each
crevice and folding of its surrounding hills—say what you think of me;
king-expectant, angel or devil, which?”

This ironical tone was discord to my bursting, over-boiling-heart; I was
nettled by his insolence, and replied with bitterness; “There is a
spirit, neither angel or devil, damned to limbo merely.” I saw his cheeks
become pale, and his lips whiten and quiver; his anger served but to enkindle
mine, and I answered with a determined look his eyes which glared on me;
suddenly they were withdrawn, cast down, a tear, I thought, wetted the dark
lashes; I was softened, and with involuntary emotion added, “Not that you
are such, my dear lord.”

I paused, even awed by the agitation he evinced; “Yes,” he said at
length, rising and biting his lip, as he strove to curb his passion;
“Such am I! You do not know me, Verney; neither you, nor our audience of
last night, nor does universal England know aught of me. I stand here, it would
seem, an elected king; this hand is about to grasp a sceptre; these brows feel
in each nerve the coming diadem. I appear to have strength, power, victory;
standing as a dome-supporting column stands; and I am—a reed! I have
ambition, and that attains its aim; my nightly dreams are realized, my waking
hopes fulfilled; a kingdom awaits my acceptance, my enemies are overthrown. But
here,” and he struck his heart with violence, “here is the rebel,
here the stumbling-block; this over-ruling heart, which I may drain of its
living blood; but, while one fluttering pulsation remains, I am its
slave.”

He spoke with a broken voice, then bowed his head, and, hiding his face in his
hands, wept. I was still smarting from my own disappointment; yet this scene
oppressed me even to terror, nor could I interrupt his access of passion. It
subsided at length; and, throwing himself on the couch, he remained silent and
motionless, except that his changeful features shewed a strong internal
conflict. At last he rose, and said in his usual tone of voice, “The time
grows on us, Verney, I must away. Let me not forget my chiefest errand here.
Will you accompany me to Windsor to-morrow? You will not be dishonoured by my
society, and as this is probably the last service, or disservice you can do me,
will you grant my request?”

He held out his hand with almost a bashful air. Swiftly I thought—Yes, I
will witness the last scene of the drama. Beside which, his mien conquered me,
and an affectionate sentiment towards him, again filled my heart—I bade
him command me. “Aye, that I will,” said he gaily,
“that’s my cue now; be with me to-morrow morning by seven; be
secret and faithful; and you shall be groom of the stole ere long.”

So saying, he hastened away, vaulted on his horse, and with a gesture as if he
gave me his hand to kiss, bade me another laughing adieu. Left to myself, I
strove with painful intensity to divine the motive of his request and foresee
the events of the coming day. The hours passed on unperceived; my head ached
with thought, the nerves seemed teeming with the over full fraught—I
clasped my burning brow, as if my fevered hand could medicine its pain. I was
punctual to the appointed hour on the following day, and found Lord Raymond
waiting for me. We got into his carriage, and proceeded towards Windsor. I had
tutored myself, and was resolved by no outward sign to disclose my internal
agitation.

“What a mistake Ryland made,” said Raymond, “when he thought
to overpower me the other night. He spoke well, very well; such an harangue
would have succeeded better addressed to me singly, than to the fools and
knaves assembled yonder. Had I been alone, I should have listened to him with a
wish to hear reason, but when he endeavoured to vanquish me in my own
territory, with my own weapons, he put me on my mettle, and the event was such
as all might have expected.”

I smiled incredulously, and replied: “I am of Ryland’s way of
thinking, and will, if you please, repeat all his arguments; we shall see how
far you will be induced by them, to change the royal for the patriotic
style.”

“The repetition would be useless,” said Raymond, “since I
well remember them, and have many others, self-suggested, which speak with
unanswerable persuasion.”

He did not explain himself, nor did I make any remark on his reply. Our silence
endured for some miles, till the country with open fields, or shady woods and
parks, presented pleasant objects to our view. After some observations on the
scenery and seats, Raymond said: “Philosophers have called man a
microcosm of nature, and find a reflection in the internal mind for all this
machinery visibly at work around us. This theory has often been a source of
amusement to me; and many an idle hour have I spent, exercising my ingenuity in
finding resemblances. Does not Lord Bacon say that, ‘the falling from a
discord to a concord, which maketh great sweetness in music, hath an agreement
with the affections, which are re-integrated to the better after some
dislikes?’ What a sea is the tide of passion, whose fountains are in our
own nature! Our virtues are the quick-sands, which shew themselves at calm and
low water; but let the waves arise and the winds buffet them, and the poor
devil whose hope was in their durability, finds them sink from under him. The
fashions of the world, its exigencies, educations and pursuits, are winds to
drive our wills, like clouds all one way; but let a thunderstorm arise in the
shape of love, hate, or ambition, and the rack goes backward, stemming the
opposing air in triumph.”

“Yet,” replied I, “nature always presents to our eyes the
appearance of a patient: while there is an active principle in man which is
capable of ruling fortune, and at least of tacking against the gale, till it in
some mode conquers it.”

“There is more of what is specious than true in your distinction,”
said my companion. “Did we form ourselves, choosing our dispositions, and
our powers? I find myself, for one, as a stringed instrument with chords and
stops—but I have no power to turn the pegs, or pitch my thoughts to a
higher or lower key.”

“Other men,” I observed, “may be better musicians.”

“I talk not of others, but myself,” replied Raymond, “and I
am as fair an example to go by as another. I cannot set my heart to a
particular tune, or run voluntary changes on my will. We are born; we choose
neither our parents, nor our station; we are educated by others, or by the
world’s circumstance, and this cultivation, mingling with our innate
disposition, is the soil in which our desires, passions, and motives
grow.”

“There is much truth in what you say,” said I, “and yet no
man ever acts upon this theory. Who, when he makes a choice, says, Thus I
choose, because I am necessitated? Does he not on the contrary feel a freedom
of will within him, which, though you may call it fallacious, still actuates
him as he decides?”

“Exactly so,” replied Raymond, “another link of the breakless
chain. Were I now to commit an act which would annihilate my hopes, and pluck
the regal garment from my mortal limbs, to clothe them in ordinary weeds, would
this, think you, be an act of free-will on my part?”

As we talked thus, I perceived that we were not going the ordinary road to
Windsor, but through Englefield Green, towards Bishopgate Heath. I began to
divine that Idris was not the object of our journey, but that I was brought to
witness the scene that was to decide the fate of Raymond—and of Perdita.
Raymond had evidently vacillated during his journey, and irresolution was
marked in every gesture as we entered Perdita’s cottage. I watched him
curiously, determined that, if this hesitation should continue, I would assist
Perdita to overcome herself, and teach her to disdain the wavering love of him,
who balanced between the possession of a crown, and of her, whose excellence
and affection transcended the worth of a kingdom.

We found her in her flower-adorned alcove; she was reading the newspaper report
of the debate in parliament, that apparently doomed her to hopelessness. That
heart-sinking feeling was painted in her sunk eyes and spiritless attitude; a
cloud was on her beauty, and frequent sighs were tokens of her distress. This
sight had an instantaneous effect on Raymond; his eyes beamed with tenderness,
and remorse clothed his manners with earnestness and truth. He sat beside her;
and, taking the paper from her hand, said, “Not a word more shall my
sweet Perdita read of this contention of madmen and fools. I must not permit
you to be acquainted with the extent of my delusion, lest you despise me;
although, believe me, a wish to appear before you, not vanquished, but as a
conqueror, inspired me during my wordy war.”

Perdita looked at him like one amazed; her expressive countenance shone for a
moment with tenderness; to see him only was happiness. But a bitter thought
swiftly shadowed her joy; she bent her eyes on the ground, endeavouring to
master the passion of tears that threatened to overwhelm her. Raymond
continued, “I will not act a part with you, dear girl, or appear other
than what I am, weak and unworthy, more fit to excite your disdain than your
love. Yet you do love me; I feel and know that you do, and thence I draw my
most cherished hopes. If pride guided you, or even reason, you might well
reject me. Do so; if your high heart, incapable of my infirmity of purpose,
refuses to bend to the lowness of mine. Turn from me, if you will,—if you
can. If your whole soul does not urge you to forgive me—if your entire
heart does not open wide its door to admit me to its very centre, forsake me,
never speak to me again. I, though sinning against you almost beyond remission,
I also am proud; there must be no reserve in your pardon—no drawback to
the gift of your affection.”

Perdita looked down, confused, yet pleased. My presence embarrassed her; so
that she dared not turn to meet her lover’s eye, or trust her voice to
assure him of her affection; while a blush mantled her cheek, and her
disconsolate air was exchanged for one expressive of deep-felt joy. Raymond
encircled her waist with his arm, and continued, “I do not deny that I
have balanced between you and the highest hope that mortal men can entertain;
but I do so no longer. Take me—mould me to your will, possess my heart
and soul to all eternity. If you refuse to contribute to my happiness, I quit
England to-night, and will never set foot in it again.

“Lionel, you hear: witness for me: persuade your sister to forgive the
injury I have done her; persuade her to be mine.”

“There needs no persuasion,” said the blushing Perdita,
“except your own dear promises, and my ready heart, which whispers to me
that they are true.”

That same evening we all three walked together in the forest, and, with the
garrulity which happiness inspires, they detailed to me the history of their
loves. It was pleasant to see the haughty Raymond and reserved Perdita changed
through happy love into prattling, playful children, both losing their
characteristic dignity in the fulness of mutual contentment. A night or two ago
Lord Raymond, with a brow of care, and a heart oppressed with thought, bent all
his energies to silence or persuade the legislators of England that a sceptre
was not too weighty for his hand, while visions of dominion, war, and triumph
floated before him; now, frolicsome as a lively boy sporting under his
mother’s approving eye, the hopes of his ambition were complete, when he
pressed the small fair hand of Perdita to his lips; while she, radiant with
delight, looked on the still pool, not truly admiring herself, but drinking in
with rapture the reflection there made of the form of herself and her lover,
shewn for the first time in dear conjunction.

I rambled away from them. If the rapture of assured sympathy was theirs, I
enjoyed that of restored hope. I looked on the regal towers of Windsor. High is
the wall and strong the barrier that separate me from my Star of Beauty. But
not impassible. She will not be his. A few more years dwell in thy native
garden, sweet flower, till I by toil and time acquire a right to gather thee.
Despair not, nor bid me despair! What must I do now? First I must seek Adrian,
and restore him to her. Patience, gentleness, and untired affection, shall
recall him, if it be true, as Raymond says, that he is mad; energy and courage
shall rescue him, if he be unjustly imprisoned.

After the lovers again joined me, we supped together in the alcove. Truly it
was a fairy’s supper; for though the air was perfumed by the scent of
fruits and wine, we none of us either ate or drank—even the beauty of the
night was unobserved; their extasy could not be increased by outward objects,
and I was wrapt in reverie. At about midnight Raymond and I took leave of my
sister, to return to town. He was all gaiety; scraps of songs fell from his
lips; every thought of his mind—every object about us, gleamed under the
sunshine of his mirth. He accused me of melancholy, of ill-humour and envy.

“Not so,” said I, “though I confess that my thoughts are not
occupied as pleasantly as yours are. You promised to facilitate my visit to
Adrian; I conjure you to perform your promise. I cannot linger here; I long to
soothe —perhaps to cure the malady of my first and best friend. I shall
immediately depart for Dunkeld.”

“Thou bird of night,” replied Raymond, “what an eclipse do
you throw across my bright thoughts, forcing me to call to mind that melancholy
ruin, which stands in mental desolation, more irreparable than a fragment of a
carved column in a weed-grown field. You dream that you can restore him?
Daedalus never wound so inextricable an error round Minotaur, as madness has
woven about his imprisoned reason. Nor you, nor any other Theseus, can thread
the labyrinth, to which perhaps some unkind Ariadne has the clue.”

“You allude to Evadne Zaimi: but she is not in England.”

“And were she,” said Raymond, “I would not advise her seeing
him. Better to decay in absolute delirium, than to be the victim of the
methodical unreason of ill-bestowed love. The long duration of his malady has
probably erased from his mind all vestige of her; and it were well that it
should never again be imprinted. You will find him at Dunkeld; gentle and
tractable he wanders up the hills, and through the wood, or sits listening
beside the waterfall. You may see him—his hair stuck with wild flowers
—his eyes full of untraceable meaning—his voice broken—his
person wasted to a shadow. He plucks flowers and weeds, and weaves chaplets of
them, or sails yellow leaves and bits of bark on the stream, rejoicing in their
safety, or weeping at their wreck. The very memory half unmans me. By Heaven!
the first tears I have shed since boyhood rushed scalding into my eyes when I
saw him.”

It needed not this last account to spur me on to visit him. I only doubted
whether or not I should endeavour to see Idris again, before I departed. This
doubt was decided on the following day. Early in the morning Raymond came to
me; intelligence had arrived that Adrian was dangerously ill, and it appeared
impossible that his failing strength should surmount the disorder.
“To-morrow,” said Raymond, “his mother and sister set out for
Scotland to see him once again.”

“And I go to-day,” I cried; “this very hour I will engage a
sailing balloon; I shall be there in forty-eight hours at furthest, perhaps in
less, if the wind is fair. Farewell, Raymond; be happy in having chosen the
better part in life. This turn of fortune revives me. I feared madness, not
sickness—I have a presentiment that Adrian will not die; perhaps this
illness is a crisis, and he may recover.”

Everything favoured my journey. The balloon rose about half a mile from the
earth, and with a favourable wind it hurried through the air, its feathered
vans cleaving the unopposing atmosphere. Notwithstanding the melancholy object
of my journey, my spirits were exhilarated by reviving hope, by the swift
motion of the airy pinnace, and the balmy visitation of the sunny air. The
pilot hardly moved the plumed steerage, and the slender mechanism of the wings,
wide unfurled, gave forth a murmuring noise, soothing to the sense. Plain and
hill, stream and corn-field, were discernible below, while we unimpeded sped on
swift and secure, as a wild swan in his spring-tide flight. The machine obeyed
the slightest motion of the helm; and, the wind blowing steadily, there was no
let or obstacle to our course. Such was the power of man over the elements; a
power long sought, and lately won; yet foretold in by-gone time by the prince
of poets, whose verses I quoted much to the astonishment of my pilot, when I
told him how many hundred years ago they had been written:—

Oh! human wit, thou can’st invent much ill,
Thou searchest strange arts: who would think by skill,
An heavy man like a light bird should stray,
And through the empty heavens find a way?

I alighted at Perth; and, though much fatigued by a constant exposure to the
air for many hours, I would not rest, but merely altering my mode of
conveyance, I went by land instead of air, to Dunkeld. The sun was rising as I
entered the opening of the hills. After the revolution of ages Birnam hill was
again covered with a young forest, while more aged pines, planted at the very
commencement of the nineteenth century by the then Duke of Athol, gave
solemnity and beauty to the scene. The rising sun first tinged the pine tops;
and my mind, rendered through my mountain education deeply susceptible of the
graces of nature, and now on the eve of again beholding my beloved and perhaps
dying friend, was strangely influenced by the sight of those distant beams:
surely they were ominous, and as such I regarded them, good omens for Adrian,
on whose life my happiness depended.

Poor fellow! he lay stretched on a bed of sickness, his cheeks glowing with the
hues of fever, his eyes half closed, his breath irregular and difficult. Yet it
was less painful to see him thus, than to find him fulfilling the animal
functions uninterruptedly, his mind sick the while. I established myself at his
bedside; I never quitted it day or night. Bitter task was it, to behold his
spirit waver between death and life: to see his warm cheek, and know that the
very fire which burned too fiercely there, was consuming the vital fuel; to
hear his moaning voice, which might never again articulate words of love and
wisdom; to witness the ineffectual motions of his limbs, soon to be wrapt in
their mortal shroud. Such for three days and nights appeared the consummation
which fate had decreed for my labours, and I became haggard and spectre-like,
through anxiety and watching. At length his eyes unclosed faintly, yet with a
look of returning life; he became pale and weak; but the rigidity of his
features was softened by approaching convalescence. He knew me. What a brimful
cup of joyful agony it was, when his face first gleamed with the glance of
recognition—when he pressed my hand, now more fevered than his own, and
when he pronounced my name! No trace of his past insanity remained, to dash my
joy with sorrow.

This same evening his mother and sister arrived. The Countess of Windsor was by
nature full of energetic feeling; but she had very seldom in her life permitted
the concentrated emotions of her heart to shew themselves on her features. The
studied immovability of her countenance; her slow, equable manner, and soft but
unmelodious voice, were a mask, hiding her fiery passions, and the impatience
of her disposition. She did not in the least resemble either of her children;
her black and sparkling eye, lit up by pride, was totally unlike the blue
lustre, and frank, benignant expression of either Adrian or Idris. There was
something grand and majestic in her motions, but nothing persuasive, nothing
amiable. Tall, thin, and strait, her face still handsome, her raven hair hardly
tinged with grey, her forehead arched and beautiful, had not the eye-brows been
somewhat scattered—it was impossible not to be struck by her, almost to
fear her. Idris appeared to be the only being who could resist her mother,
notwithstanding the extreme mildness of her character. But there was a
fearlessness and frankness about her, which said that she would not encroach on
another’s liberty, but held her own sacred and unassailable.

The Countess cast no look of kindness on my worn-out frame, though afterwards
she thanked me coldly for my attentions. Not so Idris; her first glance was for
her brother; she took his hand, she kissed his eye-lids, and hung over him with
looks of compassion and love. Her eyes glistened with tears when she thanked
me, and the grace of her expressions was enhanced, not diminished, by the
fervour, which caused her almost to falter as she spoke. Her mother, all eyes
and ears, soon interrupted us; and I saw, that she wished to dismiss me
quietly, as one whose services, now that his relatives had arrived, were of no
use to her son. I was harassed and ill, resolved not to give up my post, yet
doubting in what way I should assert it; when Adrian called me, and clasping my
hand, bade me not leave him. His mother, apparently inattentive, at once
understood what was meant, and seeing the hold we had upon her, yielded the
point to us.

The days that followed were full of pain to me; so that I sometimes regretted
that I had not yielded at once to the haughty lady, who watched all my motions,
and turned my beloved task of nursing my friend to a work of pain and
irritation. Never did any woman appear so entirely made of mind, as the
Countess of Windsor. Her passions had subdued her appetites, even her natural
wants; she slept little, and hardly ate at all; her body was evidently
considered by her as a mere machine, whose health was necessary for the
accomplishment of her schemes, but whose senses formed no part of her
enjoyment. There is something fearful in one who can thus conquer the animal
part of our nature, if the victory be not the effect of consummate virtue; nor
was it without a mixture of this feeling, that I beheld the figure of the
Countess awake when others slept, fasting when I, abstemious naturally, and
rendered so by the fever that preyed on me, was forced to recruit myself with
food. She resolved to prevent or diminish my opportunities of acquiring
influence over her children, and circumvented my plans by a hard, quiet,
stubborn resolution, that seemed not to belong to flesh and blood. War was at
last tacitly acknowledged between us. We had many pitched battles, during which
no word was spoken, hardly a look was interchanged, but in which each resolved
not to submit to the other. The Countess had the advantage of position; so I
was vanquished, though I would not yield.

I became sick at heart. My countenance was painted with the hues of ill health
and vexation. Adrian and Idris saw this; they attributed it to my long watching
and anxiety; they urged me to rest, and take care of myself, while I most truly
assured them, that my best medicine was their good wishes; those, and the
assured convalescence of my friend, now daily more apparent. The faint rose
again blushed on his cheek; his brow and lips lost the ashy paleness of
threatened dissolution; such was the dear reward of my unremitting
attention—and bounteous heaven added overflowing recompence, when it gave
me also the thanks and smiles of Idris.

After the lapse of a few weeks, we left Dunkeld. Idris and her mother returned
immediately to Windsor, while Adrian and I followed by slow journies and
frequent stoppages, occasioned by his continued weakness. As we traversed the
various counties of fertile England, all wore an exhilarating appearance to my
companion, who had been so long secluded by disease from the enjoyments of
weather and scenery. We passed through busy towns and cultivated plains. The
husbandmen were getting in their plenteous harvests, and the women and
children, occupied by light rustic toils, formed groupes of happy, healthful
persons, the very sight of whom carried cheerfulness to the heart. One evening,
quitting our inn, we strolled down a shady lane, then up a grassy slope, till
we came to an eminence, that commanded an extensive view of hill and dale,
meandering rivers, dark woods, and shining villages. The sun was setting; and
the clouds, straying, like new-shorn sheep, through the vast fields of sky,
received the golden colour of his parting beams; the distant uplands shone out,
and the busy hum of evening came, harmonized by distance, on our ear. Adrian,
who felt all the fresh spirit infused by returning health, clasped his hands in
delight, and exclaimed with transport:

“O happy earth, and happy inhabitants of earth! A stately palace has God
built for you, O man! and worthy are you of your dwelling! Behold the verdant
carpet spread at our feet, and the azure canopy above; the fields of earth
which generate and nurture all things, and the track of heaven, which contains
and clasps all things. Now, at this evening hour, at the period of repose and
refection, methinks all hearts breathe one hymn of love and thanksgiving, and
we, like priests of old on the mountain-tops, give a voice to their sentiment.

“Assuredly a most benignant power built up the majestic fabric we
inhabit, and framed the laws by which it endures. If mere existence, and not
happiness, had been the final end of our being, what need of the profuse
luxuries which we enjoy? Why should our dwelling place be so lovely, and why
should the instincts of nature minister pleasurable sensations? The very
sustaining of our animal machine is made delightful; and our sustenance, the
fruits of the field, is painted with transcendant hues, endued with grateful
odours, and palatable to our taste. Why should this be, if HE were not good? We
need houses to protect us from the seasons, and behold the materials with which
we are provided; the growth of trees with their adornment of leaves; while
rocks of stone piled above the plains variegate the prospect with their
pleasant irregularity.

“Nor are outward objects alone the receptacles of the Spirit of Good.
Look into the mind of man, where wisdom reigns enthroned; where imagination,
the painter, sits, with his pencil dipt in hues lovelier than those of sunset,
adorning familiar life with glowing tints. What a noble boon, worthy the giver,
is the imagination! it takes from reality its leaden hue: it envelopes all
thought and sensation in a radiant veil, and with an hand of beauty beckons us
from the sterile seas of life, to her gardens, and bowers, and glades of bliss.
And is not love a gift of the divinity? Love, and her child, Hope, which can
bestow wealth on poverty, strength on the weak, and happiness on the sorrowing.

“My lot has not been fortunate. I have consorted long with grief, entered
the gloomy labyrinth of madness, and emerged, but half alive. Yet I thank God
that I have lived! I thank God, that I have beheld his throne, the heavens, and
earth, his footstool. I am glad that I have seen the changes of his day; to
behold the sun, fountain of light, and the gentle pilgrim moon; to have seen
the fire bearing flowers of the sky, and the flowery stars of earth; to have
witnessed the sowing and the harvest. I am glad that I have loved, and have
experienced sympathetic joy and sorrow with my fellow-creatures. I am glad now
to feel the current of thought flow through my mind, as the blood through the
articulations of my frame; mere existence is pleasure; and I thank God that I
live!

“And all ye happy nurslings of mother-earth, do ye not echo my words? Ye
who are linked by the affectionate ties of nature, companions, friends, lovers!
fathers, who toil with joy for their offspring; women, who while gazing on the
living forms of their children, forget the pains of maternity; children, who
neither toil nor spin, but love and are loved!

“Oh, that death and sickness were banished from our earthly home! that
hatred, tyranny, and fear could no longer make their lair in the human heart!
that each man might find a brother in his fellow, and a nest of repose amid the
wide plains of his inheritance! that the source of tears were dry, and that
lips might no longer form expressions of sorrow. Sleeping thus under the
beneficent eye of heaven, can evil visit thee, O Earth, or grief cradle to
their graves thy luckless children? Whisper it not, let the demons hear and
rejoice! The choice is with us; let us will it, and our habitation becomes a
paradise. For the will of man is omnipotent, blunting the arrows of death,
soothing the bed of disease, and wiping away the tears of agony. And what is
each human being worth, if he do not put forth his strength to aid his
fellow-creatures? My soul is a fading spark, my nature frail as a spent wave;
but I dedicate all of intellect and strength that remains to me, to that one
work, and take upon me the task, as far as I am able, of bestowing blessings on
my fellow-men!”

His voice trembled, his eyes were cast up, his hands clasped, and his fragile
person was bent, as it were, with excess of emotion. The spirit of life seemed
to linger in his form, as a dying flame on an altar flickers on the embers of
an accepted sacrifice.

CHAPTER V.

When we arrived at Windsor, I found that Raymond and Perdita had departed for
the continent. I took possession of my sister’s cottage, and blessed
myself that I lived within view of Windsor Castle. It was a curious fact, that
at this period, when by the marriage of Perdita I was allied to one of the
richest individuals in England, and was bound by the most intimate friendship
to its chiefest noble, I experienced the greatest excess of poverty that I had
ever known. My knowledge of the worldly principles of Lord Raymond, would have
ever prevented me from applying to him, however deep my distress might have
been. It was in vain that I repeated to myself with regard to Adrian, that his
purse was open to me; that one in soul, as we were, our fortunes ought also to
be common. I could never, while with him, think of his bounty as a remedy to my
poverty; and I even put aside hastily his offers of supplies, assuring him of a
falsehood, that I needed them not. How could I say to this generous being,
“Maintain me in idleness. You who have dedicated your powers of mind and
fortune to the benefit of your species, shall you so misdirect your exertions,
as to support in uselessness the strong, healthy, and capable?”

And yet I dared not request him to use his influence that I might obtain an
honourable provision for myself—for then I should have been obliged to
leave Windsor. I hovered for ever around the walls of its Castle, beneath its
enshadowing thickets; my sole companions were my books and my loving thoughts.
I studied the wisdom of the ancients, and gazed on the happy walls that
sheltered the beloved of my soul. My mind was nevertheless idle. I pored over
the poetry of old times; I studied the metaphysics of Plato and Berkeley. I
read the histories of Greece and Rome, and of England’s former periods,
and I watched the movements of the lady of my heart. At night I could see her
shadow on the walls of her apartment; by day I viewed her in her flower-garden,
or riding in the park with her usual companions. Methought the charm would be
broken if I were seen, but I heard the music of her voice and was happy. I gave
to each heroine of whom I read, her beauty and matchless excellences—such
was Antigone, when she guided the blind Œdipus to the grove of the Eumenides,
and discharged the funeral rites of Polynices; such was Miranda in the
unvisited cave of Prospero; such Haidee, on the sands of the Ionian island. I
was mad with excess of passionate devotion; but pride, tameless as fire,
invested my nature, and prevented me from betraying myself by word or look.

In the mean time, while I thus pampered myself with rich mental repasts, a
peasant would have disdained my scanty fare, which I sometimes robbed from the
squirrels of the forest. I was, I own, often tempted to recur to the lawless
feats of my boy-hood, and knock down the almost tame pheasants that perched
upon the trees, and bent their bright eyes on me. But they were the property of
Adrian, the nurslings of Idris; and so, although my imagination rendered
sensual by privation, made me think that they would better become the spit in
my kitchen, than the green leaves of the forest,

    Nathelesse,
I checked my haughty will, and did not eat;

but supped upon sentiment, and dreamt vainly of “such morsels
sweet,” as I might not waking attain.

But, at this period, the whole scheme of my existence was about to change. The
orphan and neglected son of Verney, was on the eve of being linked to the
mechanism of society by a golden chain, and to enter into all the duties and
affections of life. Miracles were to be wrought in my favour, the machine of
social life pushed with vast effort backward. Attend, O reader! while I narrate
this tale of wonders!

One day as Adrian and Idris were riding through the forest, with their mother
and accustomed companions, Idris, drawing her brother aside from the rest of
the cavalcade, suddenly asked him, “What had become of his friend, Lionel
Verney?”

“Even from this spot,” replied Adrian, pointing to my
sister’s cottage, “you can see his dwelling.”

“Indeed!” said Idris, “and why, if he be so near, does he not
come to see us, and make one of our society?”

“I often visit him,” replied Adrian; “but you may easily
guess the motives, which prevent him from coming where his presence may annoy
any one among us.”

“I do guess them,” said Idris, “and such as they are, I would
not venture to combat them. Tell me, however, in what way he passes his time;
what he is doing and thinking in his cottage retreat?”

“Nay, my sweet sister,” replied Adrian, “you ask me more than
I can well answer; but if you feel interest in him, why not visit him? He will
feel highly honoured, and thus you may repay a part of the obligation I owe
him, and compensate for the injuries fortune has done him.”

“I will most readily accompany you to his abode,” said the lady,
“not that I wish that either of us should unburthen ourselves of our
debt, which, being no less than your life, must remain unpayable ever. But let
us go; to-morrow we will arrange to ride out together, and proceeding towards
that part of the forest, call upon him.”

The next evening therefore, though the autumnal change had brought on cold and
rain, Adrian and Idris entered my cottage. They found me Curius-like, feasting
on sorry fruits for supper; but they brought gifts richer than the golden
bribes of the Sabines, nor could I refuse the invaluable store of friendship
and delight which they bestowed. Surely the glorious twins of Latona were not
more welcome, when, in the infancy of the world, they were brought forth to
beautify and enlighten this “sterile promontory,” than were this
angelic pair to my lowly dwelling and grateful heart. We sat like one family
round my hearth. Our talk was on subjects, unconnected with the emotions that
evidently occupied each; but we each divined the other’s thought, and as
our voices spoke of indifferent matters, our eyes, in mute language, told a
thousand things no tongue could have uttered.

They left me in an hour’s time. They left me happy—how unspeakably
happy. It did not require the measured sounds of human language to syllable the
story of my extasy. Idris had visited me; Idris I should again and again
see—my imagination did not wander beyond the completeness of this
knowledge. I trod air; no doubt, no fear, no hope even, disturbed me; I clasped
with my soul the fulness of contentment, satisfied, undesiring, beatified.

For many days Adrian and Idris continued to visit me thus. In this dear
intercourse, love, in the guise of enthusiastic friendship, infused more and
more of his omnipotent spirit. Idris felt it. Yes, divinity of the world, I
read your characters in her looks and gesture; I heard your melodious voice
echoed by her—you prepared for us a soft and flowery path, all gentle
thoughts adorned it—your name, O Love, was not spoken, but you stood the
Genius of the Hour, veiled, and time, but no mortal hand, might raise the
curtain. Organs of articulate sound did not proclaim the union of our hearts;
for untoward circumstance allowed no opportunity for the expression that
hovered on our lips. Oh my pen! haste thou to write what was, before the
thought of what is, arrests the hand that guides thee. If I lift up my eyes and
see the desart earth, and feel that those dear eyes have spent their mortal
lustre, and that those beauteous lips are silent, their “crimson
leaves” faded, for ever I am mute!

But you live, my Idris, even now you move before me! There was a glade, O
reader! a grassy opening in the wood; the retiring trees left its velvet
expanse as a temple for love; the silver Thames bounded it on one side, and a
willow bending down dipt in the water its Naiad hair, dishevelled by the
wind’s viewless hand. The oaks around were the home of a tribe of
nightingales—there am I now; Idris, in youth’s dear prime, is by my
side —remember, I am just twenty-two, and seventeen summers have scarcely
passed over the beloved of my heart. The river swollen by autumnal rains,
deluged the low lands, and Adrian in his favourite boat is employed in the
dangerous pastime of plucking the topmost bough from a submerged oak. Are you
weary of life, O Adrian, that you thus play with danger?—

He has obtained his prize, and he pilots his boat through the flood; our eyes
were fixed on him fearfully, but the stream carried him away from us; he was
forced to land far lower down, and to make a considerable circuit before he
could join us. “He is safe!” said Idris, as he leapt on shore, and
waved the bough over his head in token of success; “we will wait for him
here.”

We were alone together; the sun had set; the song of the nightingales began;
the evening star shone distinct in the flood of light, which was yet unfaded in
the west. The blue eyes of my angelic girl were fixed on this sweet emblem of
herself: “How the light palpitates,” she said, “which is that
star’s life. Its vacillating effulgence seems to say that its state, even
like ours upon earth, is wavering and inconstant; it fears, methinks, and it
loves.”

“Gaze not on the star, dear, generous friend,” I cried, “read
not love in its trembling rays; look not upon distant worlds; speak not
of the mere imagination of a sentiment. I have long been silent; long even to
sickness have I desired to speak to you, and submit my soul, my life, my entire
being to you. Look not on the star, dear love, or do, and let that eternal
spark plead for me; let it be my witness and my advocate, silent as it
shines—love is to me as light to the star; even so long as that is
uneclipsed by annihilation, so long shall I love you.”

Veiled for ever to the world’s callous eye must be the transport of that
moment. Still do I feel her graceful form press against my full-fraught
heart—still does sight, and pulse, and breath sicken and fail, at the
remembrance of that first kiss. Slowly and silently we went to meet Adrian,
whom we heard approaching.

I entreated Adrian to return to me after he had conducted his sister home. And
that same evening, walking among the moon-lit forest paths, I poured forth my
whole heart, its transport and its hope, to my friend. For a moment he looked
disturbed—“I might have foreseen this,” he said, “what
strife will now ensue! Pardon me, Lionel, nor wonder that the expectation of
contest with my mother should jar me, when else I should delightedly confess
that my best hopes are fulfilled, in confiding my sister to your protection. If
you do not already know it, you will soon learn the deep hate my mother bears
to the name Verney. I will converse with Idris; then all that a friend can do,
I will do; to her it must belong to play the lover’s part, if she be
capable of it.”

While the brother and sister were still hesitating in what manner they could
best attempt to bring their mother over to their party, she, suspecting our
meetings, taxed her children with them; taxed her fair daughter with deceit,
and an unbecoming attachment for one whose only merit was being the son of the
profligate favourite of her imprudent father; and who was doubtless as
worthless as he from whom he boasted his descent. The eyes of Idris flashed at
this accusation; she replied, “I do not deny that I love Verney; prove to
me that he is worthless; and I will never see him more.”

“Dear Madam,” said Adrian, “let me entreat you to see him, to
cultivate his friendship. You will wonder then, as I do, at the extent of his
accomplishments, and the brilliancy of his talents.” (Pardon me, gentle
reader, this is not futile vanity;—not futile, since to know that Adrian
felt thus, brings joy even now to my lone heart).

“Mad and foolish boy!” exclaimed the angry lady, “you have
chosen with dreams and theories to overthrow my schemes for your own
aggrandizement; but you shall not do the same by those I have formed for your
sister. I but too well understand the fascination you both labour under; since
I had the same struggle with your father, to make him cast off the parent of
this youth, who hid his evil propensities with the smoothness and subtlety of a
viper. In those days how often did I hear of his attractions, his wide spread
conquests, his wit, his refined manners. It is well when flies only are caught
by such spiders’ webs; but is it for the high-born and powerful to bow
their necks to the flimsy yoke of these unmeaning pretensions? Were your sister
indeed the insignificant person she deserves to be, I would willingly leave her
to the fate, the wretched fate, of the wife of a man, whose very person,
resembling as it does his wretched father, ought to remind you of the folly and
vice it typifies—but remember, Lady Idris, it is not alone the once royal
blood of England that colours your veins, you are a Princess of Austria, and
every life-drop is akin to emperors and kings. Are you then a fit mate for an
uneducated shepherd-boy, whose only inheritance is his father’s tarnished
name?”

“I can make but one defence,” replied Idris, “the same
offered by my brother; see Lionel, converse with my
shepherd-boy”—-The Countess interrupted her
indignantly—“Yours!”—she cried: and then, smoothing her
impassioned features to a disdainful smile, she continued—“We will
talk of this another time. All I now ask, all your mother, Idris, requests is,
that you will not see this upstart during the interval of one month.”

“I dare not comply,” said Idris, “it would pain him too much.
I have no right to play with his feelings, to accept his proffered love, and
then sting him with neglect.”

“This is going too far,” her mother answered, with quivering lips,
and eyes again instinct by anger.

“Nay, Madam,” said Adrian, “unless my sister consent never to
see him again, it is surely an useless torment to separate them for a
month.”

“Certainly,” replied the ex-queen, with bitter scorn, “his
love, and her love, and both their childish flutterings, are to be put in fit
comparison with my years of hope and anxiety, with the duties of the offspring
of kings, with the high and dignified conduct which one of her descent ought to
pursue. But it is unworthy of me to argue and complain. Perhaps you will have
the goodness to promise me not to marry during that interval?”

This was asked only half ironically; and Idris wondered why her mother should
extort from her a solemn vow not to do, what she had never dreamed of
doing—but the promise was required and given.

All went on cheerfully now; we met as usual, and talked without dread of our
future plans. The Countess was so gentle, and even beyond her wont, amiable
with her children, that they began to entertain hopes of her ultimate consent.
She was too unlike them, too utterly alien to their tastes, for them to find
delight in her society, or in the prospect of its continuance, but it gave them
pleasure to see her conciliating and kind. Once even, Adrian ventured to
propose her receiving me. She refused with a smile, reminding him that for the
present his sister had promised to be patient.

One day, after the lapse of nearly a month, Adrian received a letter from a
friend in London, requesting his immediate presence for the furtherance of some
important object. Guileless himself, Adrian feared no deceit. I rode with him
as far as Staines: he was in high spirits; and, since I could not see Idris
during his absence, he promised a speedy return. His gaiety, which was extreme,
had the strange effect of awakening in me contrary feelings; a presentiment of
evil hung over me; I loitered on my return; I counted the hours that must
elapse before I saw Idris again. Wherefore should this be? What evil might not
happen in the mean time? Might not her mother take advantage of Adrian’s
absence to urge her beyond her sufferance, perhaps to entrap her? I resolved,
let what would befall, to see and converse with her the following day. This
determination soothed me. To-morrow, loveliest and best, hope and joy of my
life, to-morrow I will see thee—Fool, to dream of a moment’s delay!

I went to rest. At past midnight I was awaked by a violent knocking. It was now
deep winter; it had snowed, and was still snowing; the wind whistled in the
leafless trees, despoiling them of the white flakes as they fell; its drear
moaning, and the continued knocking, mingled wildly with my dreams— at
length I was wide awake; hastily dressing myself, I hurried to discover the
cause of this disturbance, and to open my door to the unexpected visitor. Pale
as the snow that showered about her, with clasped hands, Idris stood before me.
“Save me!” she exclaimed, and would have sunk to the ground had I
not supported her. In a moment however she revived, and, with energy, almost
with violence, entreated me to saddle horses, to take her away, away to
London—to her brother—at least to save her. I had no
horses—she wrung her hands. “What can I do?” she cried,
“I am lost—we are both for ever lost! But come—come with me,
Lionel; here I must not stay,—we can get a chaise at the nearest
post-house; yet perhaps we have time! come, O come with me to save and protect
me!”

When I heard her piteous demands, while with disordered dress, dishevelled
hair, and aghast looks, she wrung her hands—the idea shot across me is
she also mad?—“Sweet one,” and I folded her to my heart,
“better repose than wander further;—rest—my beloved, I will
make a fire—you are chill.”

“Rest!” she cried, “repose! you rave, Lionel! If you delay we
are lost; come, I pray you, unless you would cast me off for ever.”

That Idris, the princely born, nursling of wealth and luxury, should have come
through the tempestuous winter-night from her regal abode, and standing at my
lowly door, conjure me to fly with her through darkness and storm—was
surely a dream—again her plaintive tones, the sight of her loveliness
assured me that it was no vision. Looking timidly around, as if she feared to
be overheard, she whispered: “I have discovered—to-morrow
—that is, to-day—already the to-morrow is come—before dawn,
foreigners, Austrians, my mother’s hirelings, are to carry me off to
Germany, to prison, to marriage—to anything, except you and my brother
—take me away, or soon they will be here!”

I was frightened by her vehemence, and imagined some mistake in her incoherent
tale; but I no longer hesitated to obey her. She had come by herself from the
Castle, three long miles, at midnight, through the heavy snow; we must reach
Englefield Green, a mile and a half further, before we could obtain a chaise.
She told me, that she had kept up her strength and courage till her arrival at
my cottage, and then both failed. Now she could hardly walk. Supporting her as
I did, still she lagged: and at the distance of half a mile, after many
stoppages, shivering fits, and half faintings, she slipt from my supporting arm
on the snow, and with a torrent of tears averred that she must be taken, for
that she could not proceed. I lifted her up in my arms; her light form rested
on my breast.—I felt no burthen, except the internal one of contrary and
contending emotions. Brimming delight now invested me. Again her chill limbs
touched me as a torpedo; and I shuddered in sympathy with her pain and fright.
Her head lay on my shoulder, her breath waved my hair, her heart beat near
mine, transport made me tremble, blinded me, annihilated me—till a
suppressed groan, bursting from her lips, the chattering of her teeth, which
she strove vainly to subdue, and all the signs of suffering she evinced,
recalled me to the necessity of speed and succour. At last I said to her,
“There is Englefield Green; there the inn. But, if you are seen thus
strangely circumstanced, dear Idris, even now your enemies may learn your
flight too soon: were it not better that I hired the chaise alone? I will put
you in safety meanwhile, and return to you immediately.”

She answered that I was right, and might do with her as I pleased. I observed
the door of a small out-house a-jar. I pushed it open; and, with some hay
strewed about, I formed a couch for her, placing her exhausted frame on it, and
covering her with my cloak. I feared to leave her, she looked so wan and
faint—but in a moment she re-acquired animation, and, with that, fear;
and again she implored me not to delay. To call up the people of the inn, and
obtain a conveyance and horses, even though I harnessed them myself, was the
work of many minutes; minutes, each freighted with the weight of ages. I caused
the chaise to advance a little, waited till the people of the inn had retired,
and then made the post-boy draw up the carriage to the spot where Idris,
impatient, and now somewhat recovered, stood waiting for me. I lifted her into
the chaise; I assured her that with our four horses we should arrive in London
before five o’clock, the hour when she would be sought and missed. I
besought her to calm herself; a kindly shower of tears relieved her, and by
degrees she related her tale of fear and peril.

That same night after Adrian’s departure, her mother had warmly
expostulated with her on the subject of her attachment to me. Every motive,
every threat, every angry taunt was urged in vain. She seemed to consider that
through me she had lost Raymond; I was the evil influence of her life; I was
even accused of encreasing and confirming the mad and base apostacy of Adrian
from all views of advancement and grandeur; and now this miserable mountaineer
was to steal her daughter. Never, Idris related, did the angry lady deign to
recur to gentleness and persuasion; if she had, the task of resistance would
have been exquisitely painful. As it was, the sweet girl’s generous
nature was roused to defend, and ally herself with, my despised cause. Her
mother ended with a look of contempt and covert triumph, which for a moment
awakened the suspicions of Idris. When they parted for the night, the Countess
said, “To-morrow I trust your tone will be changed: be composed; I have
agitated you; go to rest; and I will send you a medicine I always take when
unduly restless—it will give you a quiet night.”

By the time that she had with uneasy thoughts laid her fair cheek upon her
pillow, her mother’s servant brought a draught; a suspicion again crossed
her at this novel proceeding, sufficiently alarming to determine her not to
take the potion; but dislike of contention, and a wish to discover whether
there was any just foundation for her conjectures, made her, she said, almost
instinctively, and in contradiction to her usual frankness, pretend to swallow
the medicine. Then, agitated as she had been by her mother’s violence,
and now by unaccustomed fears, she lay unable to sleep, starting at every
sound. Soon her door opened softly, and on her springing up, she heard a
whisper, “Not asleep yet,” and the door again closed. With a
beating heart she expected another visit, and when after an interval her
chamber was again invaded, having first assured herself that the intruders were
her mother and an attendant, she composed herself to feigned sleep. A step
approached her bed, she dared not move, she strove to calm her palpitations,
which became more violent, when she heard her mother say mutteringly,
“Pretty simpleton, little do you think that your game is already at an
end for ever.”

For a moment the poor girl fancied that her mother believed that she had drank
poison: she was on the point of springing up; when the Countess, already at a
distance from the bed, spoke in a low voice to her companion, and again Idris
listened: “Hasten,” said she, “there is no time to
lose— it is long past eleven; they will be here at five; take merely the
clothes necessary for her journey, and her jewel-casket.” The servant
obeyed; few words were spoken on either side; but those were caught at with
avidity by the intended victim. She heard the name of her own maid
mentioned;—“No, no,” replied her mother, “she does not
go with us; Lady Idris must forget England, and all belonging to it.” And
again she heard, “She will not wake till late to-morrow, and we shall
then be at sea.”——“All is ready,” at length the
woman announced. The Countess again came to her daughter’s bedside:
“In Austria at least,” she said, “you will obey. In Austria,
where obedience can be enforced, and no choice left but between an honourable
prison and a fitting marriage.”

Both then withdrew; though, as she went, the Countess said, “Softly; all
sleep; though all have not been prepared for sleep, like her. I would not have
any one suspect, or she might be roused to resistance, and perhaps escape. Come
with me to my room; we will remain there till the hour agreed upon.” They
went. Idris, panic-struck, but animated and strengthened even by her excessive
fear, dressed herself hurriedly, and going down a flight of back-stairs,
avoiding the vicinity of her mother’s apartment, she contrived to escape
from the castle by a low window, and came through snow, wind, and obscurity to
my cottage; nor lost her courage, until she arrived, and, depositing her fate
in my hands, gave herself up to the desperation and weariness that overwhelmed
her.

I comforted her as well as I might. Joy and exultation, were mine, to possess,
and to save her. Yet not to excite fresh agitation in her, “per non
turbar quel bel viso sereno,” I curbed my delight. I strove to quiet
the eager dancing of my heart; I turned from her my eyes, beaming with too much
tenderness, and proudly, to dark night, and the inclement atmosphere, murmured
the expressions of my transport. We reached London, methought, all too soon;
and yet I could not regret our speedy arrival, when I witnessed the extasy with
which my beloved girl found herself in her brother’s arms, safe from
every evil, under his unblamed protection.

Adrian wrote a brief note to his mother, informing her that Idris was under his
care and guardianship. Several days elapsed, and at last an answer came, dated
from Cologne. “It was useless,” the haughty and disappointed lady
wrote, “for the Earl of Windsor and his sister to address again the
injured parent, whose only expectation of tranquillity must be derived from
oblivion of their existence. Her desires had been blasted, her schemes
overthrown. She did not complain; in her brother’s court she would find,
not compensation for their disobedience (filial unkindness admitted of none),
but such a state of things and mode of life, as might best reconcile her to her
fate. Under such circumstances, she positively declined any communication with
them.”

Such were the strange and incredible events, that finally brought about my
union with the sister of my best friend, with my adored Idris. With simplicity
and courage she set aside the prejudices and opposition which were obstacles to
my happiness, nor scrupled to give her hand, where she had given her heart. To
be worthy of her, to raise myself to her height through the exertion of talents
and virtue, to repay her love with devoted, unwearied tenderness, were the only
thanks I could offer for the matchless gift.

CHAPTER VI.

And now let the reader, passing over some short period of time, be introduced
to our happy circle. Adrian, Idris and I, were established in Windsor Castle;
Lord Raymond and my sister, inhabited a house which the former had built on the
borders of the Great Park, near Perdita’s cottage, as was still named the
low-roofed abode, where we two, poor even in hope, had each received the
assurance of our felicity. We had our separate occupations and our common
amusements. Sometimes we passed whole days under the leafy covert of the forest
with our books and music. This occurred during those rare days in this country,
when the sun mounts his etherial throne in unclouded majesty, and the windless
atmosphere is as a bath of pellucid and grateful water, wrapping the senses in
tranquillity. When the clouds veiled the sky, and the wind scattered them there
and here, rending their woof, and strewing its fragments through the aerial
plains—then we rode out, and sought new spots of beauty and repose. When
the frequent rains shut us within doors, evening recreation followed morning
study, ushered in by music and song. Idris had a natural musical talent; and
her voice, which had been carefully cultivated, was full and sweet. Raymond and
I made a part of the concert, and Adrian and Perdita were devout listeners.
Then we were as gay as summer insects, playful as children; we ever met one
another with smiles, and read content and joy in each other’s
countenances. Our prime festivals were held in Perdita’s cottage; nor
were we ever weary of talking of the past or dreaming of the future. Jealousy
and disquiet were unknown among us; nor did a fear or hope of change ever
disturb our tranquillity. Others said, We might be happy—we said—We
are.

When any separation took place between us, it generally so happened, that Idris
and Perdita would ramble away together, and we remained to discuss the affairs
of nations, and the philosophy of life. The very difference of our dispositions
gave zest to these conversations. Adrian had the superiority in learning and
eloquence; but Raymond possessed a quick penetration, and a practical knowledge
of life, which usually displayed itself in opposition to Adrian, and thus kept
up the ball of discussion. At other times we made excursions of many
days’ duration, and crossed the country to visit any spot noted for
beauty or historical association. Sometimes we went up to London, and entered
into the amusements of the busy throng; sometimes our retreat was invaded by
visitors from among them. This change made us only the more sensible to the
delights of the intimate intercourse of our own circle, the tranquillity of our
divine forest, and our happy evenings in the halls of our beloved Castle.

The disposition of Idris was peculiarly frank, soft, and affectionate. Her
temper was unalterably sweet; and although firm and resolute on any point that
touched her heart, she was yielding to those she loved. The nature of Perdita
was less perfect; but tenderness and happiness improved her temper, and
softened her natural reserve. Her understanding was clear and comprehensive,
her imagination vivid; she was sincere, generous, and reasonable. Adrian, the
matchless brother of my soul, the sensitive and excellent Adrian, loving all,
and beloved by all, yet seemed destined not to find the half of himself, which
was to complete his happiness. He often left us, and wandered by himself in the
woods, or sailed in his little skiff, his books his only companions. He was
often the gayest of our party, at the same time that he was the only one
visited by fits of despondency; his slender frame seemed overcharged with the
weight of life, and his soul appeared rather to inhabit his body than unite
with it. I was hardly more devoted to my Idris than to her brother, and she
loved him as her teacher, her friend, the benefactor who had secured to her the
fulfilment of her dearest wishes. Raymond, the ambitious, restless Raymond,
reposed midway on the great high-road of life, and was content to give up all
his schemes of sovereignty and fame, to make one of us, the flowers of the
field. His kingdom was the heart of Perdita, his subjects her thoughts; by her
he was loved, respected as a superior being, obeyed, waited on. No office, no
devotion, no watching was irksome to her, as it regarded him. She would sit
apart from us and watch him; she would weep for joy to think that he was hers.
She erected a temple for him in the depth of her being, and each faculty was a
priestess vowed to his service. Sometimes she might be wayward and capricious;
but her repentance was bitter, her return entire, and even this inequality of
temper suited him who was not formed by nature to float idly down the stream of
life.

During the first year of their marriage, Perdita presented Raymond with a
lovely girl. It was curious to trace in this miniature model the very traits of
its father. The same half-disdainful lips and smile of triumph, the same
intelligent eyes, the same brow and chestnut hair; her very hands and taper
fingers resembled his. How very dear she was to Perdita! In progress of time, I
also became a father, and our little darlings, our playthings and delights,
called forth a thousand new and delicious feelings.

Years passed thus,—even years. Each month brought forth its successor,
each year one like to that gone by; truly, our lives were a living comment on
that beautiful sentiment of Plutarch, that “our souls have a natural
inclination to love, being born as much to love, as to feel, to reason, to
understand and remember.” We talked of change and active pursuits, but
still remained at Windsor, incapable of violating the charm that attached us to
our secluded life.

Pareamo aver qui tutto il ben raccolto
Che fra mortali in più parte si rimembra.

Now also that our children gave us occupation, we found excuses for our
idleness, in the idea of bringing them up to a more splendid career. At length
our tranquillity was disturbed, and the course of events, which for five years
had flowed on in hushing tranquillity, was broken by breakers and obstacles,
that woke us from our pleasant dream.

A new Lord Protector of England was to be chosen; and, at Raymond’s
request, we removed to London, to witness, and even take a part in the
election. If Raymond had been united to Idris, this post had been his
stepping-stone to higher dignity; and his desire for power and fame had been
crowned with fullest measure. He had exchanged a sceptre for a lute, a kingdom
for Perdita.

Did he think of this as we journeyed up to town? I watched him, but could make
but little of him. He was particularly gay, playing with his child, and turning
to sport every word that was uttered. Perhaps he did this because he saw a
cloud upon Perdita’s brow. She tried to rouse herself, but her eyes every
now and then filled with tears, and she looked wistfully on Raymond and her
girl, as if fearful that some evil would betide them. And so she felt. A
presentiment of ill hung over her. She leaned from the window looking on the
forest, and the turrets of the Castle, and as these became hid by intervening
objects, she passionately exclaimed—“Scenes of happiness! scenes
sacred to devoted love, when shall I see you again! and when I see ye, shall I
be still the beloved and joyous Perdita, or shall I, heart-broken and lost,
wander among your groves, the ghost of what I am!”

“Why, silly one,” cried Raymond, “what is your little head
pondering upon, that of a sudden you have become so sublimely dismal? Cheer up,
or I shall make you over to Idris, and call Adrian into the carriage, who, I
see by his gesture, sympathizes with my good spirits.”

Adrian was on horseback; he rode up to the carriage, and his gaiety, in
addition to that of Raymond, dispelled my sister’s melancholy. We entered
London in the evening, and went to our several abodes near Hyde Park.

The following morning Lord Raymond visited me early. “I come to
you,” he said, “only half assured that you will assist me in my
project, but resolved to go through with it, whether you concur with me or not.
Promise me secrecy however; for if you will not contribute to my success, at
least you must not baffle me.”

“Well, I promise. And now—-”

“And now, my dear fellow, for what are we come to London? To be present
at the election of a Protector, and to give our yea or nay for his shuffling
Grace of——? or for that noisy Ryland? Do you believe, Verney, that
I brought you to town for that? No, we will have a Protector of our own. We
will set up a candidate, and ensure his success. We will nominate Adrian, and
do our best to bestow on him the power to which he is entitled by his birth,
and which he merits through his virtues.

“Do not answer; I know all your objections, and will reply to them in
order. First, Whether he will or will not consent to become a great man? Leave
the task of persuasion on that point to me; I do not ask you to assist me
there. Secondly, Whether he ought to exchange his employment of plucking
blackberries, and nursing wounded partridges in the forest, for the command of
a nation? My dear Lionel, we are married men, and find employment sufficient in
amusing our wives, and dancing our children. But Adrian is alone, wifeless,
childless, unoccupied. I have long observed him. He pines for want of some
interest in life. His heart, exhausted by his early sufferings, reposes like a
new-healed limb, and shrinks from all excitement. But his understanding, his
charity, his virtues, want a field for exercise and display; and we will
procure it for him. Besides, is it not a shame, that the genius of Adrian
should fade from the earth like a flower in an untrod mountain-path, fruitless?
Do you think Nature composed his surpassing machine for no purpose? Believe me,
he was destined to be the author of infinite good to his native England. Has
she not bestowed on him every gift in prodigality?—birth, wealth, talent,
goodness? Does not every one love and admire him? and does he not delight
singly in such efforts as manifest his love to all? Come, I see that you are
already persuaded, and will second me when I propose him to-night in
parliament.”

“You have got up all your arguments in excellent order,” I replied;
“and, if Adrian consent, they are unanswerable. One only condition I
would make, —that you do nothing without his concurrence.”

“I believe you are in the right,” said Raymond; “although I
had thought at first to arrange the affair differently. Be it so. I will go
instantly to Adrian; and, if he inclines to consent, you will not destroy my
labour by persuading him to return, and turn squirrel again in Windsor Forest.
Idris, you will not act the traitor towards me?”

“Trust me,” replied she, “I will preserve a strict
neutrality.”

“For my part,” said I, “I am too well convinced of the worth
of our friend, and the rich harvest of benefits that all England would reap
from his Protectorship, to deprive my countrymen of such a blessing, if he
consent to bestow it on them.”

In the evening Adrian visited us.—“Do you cabal also against
me,” said he, laughing; “and will you make common cause with
Raymond, in dragging a poor visionary from the clouds to surround him with the
fire-works and blasts of earthly grandeur, instead of heavenly rays and airs? I
thought you knew me better.”

“I do know you better,” I replied “than to think that you
would be happy in such a situation; but the good you would do to others may be
an inducement, since the time is probably arrived when you can put your
theories into practice, and you may bring about such reformation and change, as
will conduce to that perfect system of government which you delight to
portray.”

“You speak of an almost-forgotten dream,” said Adrian, his
countenance slightly clouding as he spoke; “the visions of my boyhood
have long since faded in the light of reality; I know now that I am not a man
fitted to govern nations; sufficient for me, if I keep in wholesome rule the
little kingdom of my own mortality.

“But do not you see, Lionel, the drift of our noble friend; a drift,
perhaps, unknown to himself, but apparent to me. Lord Raymond was never born to
be a drone in the hive, and to find content in our pastoral life. He thinks,
that he ought to be satisfied; he imagines, that his present situation
precludes the possibility of aggrandisement; he does not therefore, even in his
own heart, plan change for himself. But do you not see, that, under the idea of
exalting me, he is chalking out a new path for himself; a path of action from
which he has long wandered?

“Let us assist him. He, the noble, the warlike, the great in every
quality that can adorn the mind and person of man; he is fitted to be the
Protector of England. If I—that is, if we propose him, he
will assuredly be elected, and will find, in the functions of that high office,
scope for the towering powers of his mind. Even Perdita will rejoice. Perdita,
in whom ambition was a covered fire until she married Raymond, which event was
for a time the fulfilment of her hopes; Perdita will rejoice in the glory and
advancement of her lord—and, coyly and prettily, not be discontented with
her share. In the mean time, we, the wise of the land, will return to our
Castle, and, Cincinnatus-like, take to our usual labours, until our friend
shall require our presence and assistance here.”

The more Adrian reasoned upon this scheme, the more feasible it appeared. His
own determination never to enter into public life was insurmountable, and the
delicacy of his health was a sufficient argument against it. The next step was
to induce Raymond to confess his secret wishes for dignity and fame. He entered
while we were speaking. The way in which Adrian had received his project for
setting him up as a candidate for the Protectorship, and his replies, had
already awakened in his mind, the view of the subject which we were now
discussing. His countenance and manner betrayed irresolution and anxiety; but
the anxiety arose from a fear that we should not prosecute, or not succeed in
our idea; and his irresolution, from a doubt whether we should risk a defeat. A
few words from us decided him, and hope and joy sparkled in his eyes; the idea
of embarking in a career, so congenial to his early habits and cherished
wishes, made him as before energetic and bold. We discussed his chances, the
merits of the other candidates, and the dispositions of the voters.

After all we miscalculated. Raymond had lost much of his popularity, and was
deserted by his peculiar partizans. Absence from the busy stage had caused him
to be forgotten by the people; his former parliamentary supporters were
principally composed of royalists, who had been willing to make an idol of him
when he appeared as the heir of the Earldom of Windsor; but who were
indifferent to him, when he came forward with no other attributes and
distinctions than they conceived to be common to many among themselves. Still
he had many friends, admirers of his transcendent talents; his presence in the
house, his eloquence, address and imposing beauty, were calculated to produce
an electric effect. Adrian also, notwithstanding his recluse habits and
theories, so adverse to the spirit of party, had many friends, and they were
easily induced to vote for a candidate of his selection.

The Duke of——, and Mr. Ryland, Lord Raymond’s old antagonist,
were the other candidates. The Duke was supported by all the aristocrats of the
republic, who considered him their proper representative. Ryland was the
popular candidate; when Lord Raymond was first added to the list, his chance of
success appeared small. We retired from the debate which had followed on his
nomination: we, his nominators, mortified; he dispirited to excess. Perdita
reproached us bitterly. Her expectations had been strongly excited; she had
urged nothing against our project, on the contrary, she was evidently pleased
by it; but its evident ill success changed the current of her ideas. She felt,
that, once awakened, Raymond would never return unrepining to Windsor. His
habits were unhinged; his restless mind roused from its sleep, ambition must
now be his companion through life; and if he did not succeed in his present
attempt, she foresaw that unhappiness and cureless discontent would follow.
Perhaps her own disappointment added a sting to her thoughts and words; she did
not spare us, and our own reflections added to our disquietude.

It was necessary to follow up our nomination, and to persuade Raymond to
present himself to the electors on the following evening. For a long time he
was obstinate. He would embark in a balloon; he would sail for a distant
quarter of the world, where his name and humiliation were unknown. But this was
useless; his attempt was registered; his purpose published to the world; his
shame could never be erased from the memories of men. It was as well to fail at
last after a struggle, as to fly now at the beginning of his enterprise.

From the moment that he adopted this idea, he was changed. His depression and
anxiety fled; he became all life and activity. The smile of triumph shone on
his countenance; determined to pursue his object to the uttermost, his manner
and expression seem ominous of the accomplishment of his wishes. Not so
Perdita. She was frightened by his gaiety, for she dreaded a greater revulsion
at the end. If his appearance even inspired us with hope, it only rendered the
state of her mind more painful. She feared to lose sight of him; yet she
dreaded to remark any change in the temper of his mind. She listened eagerly to
him, yet tantalized herself by giving to his words a meaning foreign to their
true interpretation, and adverse to her hopes. She dared not be present at the
contest; yet she remained at home a prey to double solicitude. She wept over
her little girl; she looked, she spoke, as if she dreaded the occurrence of
some frightful calamity. She was half mad from the effects of uncontrollable
agitation.

Lord Raymond presented himself to the house with fearless confidence and
insinuating address. After the Duke of——and Mr. Ryland had finished
their speeches, he commenced. Assuredly he had not conned his lesson; and at
first he hesitated, pausing in his ideas, and in the choice of his expressions.
By degrees he warmed; his words flowed with ease, his language was full of
vigour, and his voice of persuasion. He reverted to his past life, his
successes in Greece, his favour at home. Why should he lose this, now that
added years, prudence, and the pledge which his marriage gave to his country,
ought to encrease, rather than diminish his claims to confidence? He spoke of
the state of England; the necessary measures to be taken to ensure its
security, and confirm its prosperity. He drew a glowing picture of its present
situation. As he spoke, every sound was hushed, every thought suspended by
intense attention. His graceful elocution enchained the senses of his hearers.
In some degree also he was fitted to reconcile all parties. His birth pleased
the aristocracy; his being the candidate recommended by Adrian, a man
intimately allied to the popular party, caused a number, who had no great
reliance either on the Duke or Mr. Ryland, to range on his side.

The contest was keen and doubtful. Neither Adrian nor myself would have been so
anxious, if our own success had depended on our exertions; but we had egged our
friend on to the enterprise, and it became us to ensure his triumph. Idris, who
entertained the highest opinion of his abilities, was warmly interested in the
event: and my poor sister, who dared not hope, and to whom fear was misery, was
plunged into a fever of disquietude.

Day after day passed while we discussed our projects for the evening, and each
night was occupied by debates which offered no conclusion. At last the crisis
came: the night when parliament, which had so long delayed its choice, must
decide: as the hour of twelve passed, and the new day began, it was by virtue
of the constitution dissolved, its power extinct.

We assembled at Raymond’s house, we and our partizans. At half past five
o’clock we proceeded to the House. Idris endeavoured to calm Perdita; but
the poor girl’s agitation deprived her of all power of self-command. She
walked up and down the room,—gazed wildly when any one entered, fancying
that they might be the announcers of her doom. I must do justice to my sweet
sister: it was not for herself that she was thus agonized. She alone knew the
weight which Raymond attached to his success. Even to us he assumed gaiety and
hope, and assumed them so well, that we did not divine the secret workings of
his mind. Sometimes a nervous trembling, a sharp dissonance of voice, and
momentary fits of absence revealed to Perdita the violence he did himself; but
we, intent on our plans, observed only his ready laugh, his joke intruded on
all occasions, the flow of his spirits which seemed incapable of ebb. Besides,
Perdita was with him in his retirement; she saw the moodiness that succeeded to
this forced hilarity; she marked his disturbed sleep, his painful
irritability—once she had seen his tears—hers had scarce ceased to
flow, since she had beheld the big drops which disappointed pride had caused to
gather in his eye, but which pride was unable to dispel. What wonder then, that
her feelings were wrought to this pitch! I thus accounted to myself for her
agitation; but this was not all, and the sequel revealed another excuse.

One moment we seized before our departure, to take leave of our beloved girls.
I had small hope of success, and entreated Idris to watch over my sister. As I
approached the latter, she seized my hand, and drew me into another apartment;
she threw herself into my arms, and wept and sobbed bitterly and long. I tried
to soothe her; I bade her hope; I asked what tremendous consequences would
ensue even on our failure. “My brother,” she cried,
“protector of my childhood, dear, most dear Lionel, my fate hangs by a
thread. I have you all about me now—you, the companion of my infancy;
Adrian, as dear to me as if bound by the ties of blood; Idris, the sister of my
heart, and her lovely offspring. This, O this may be the last time that you
will surround me thus!”

Abruptly she stopped, and then cried: “What have I said?—foolish
false girl that I am!” She looked wildly on me, and then suddenly calming
herself, apologized for what she called her unmeaning words, saying that she
must indeed be insane, for, while Raymond lived, she must be happy; and then,
though she still wept, she suffered me tranquilly to depart. Raymond only took
her hand when he went, and looked on her expressively; she answered by a look
of intelligence and assent.

Poor girl! what she then suffered! I could never entirely forgive Raymond for
the trials he imposed on her, occasioned as they were by a selfish feeling on
his part. He had schemed, if he failed in his present attempt, without taking
leave of any of us, to embark for Greece, and never again to revisit England.
Perdita acceded to his wishes; for his contentment was the chief object of her
life, the crown of her enjoyment; but to leave us all, her companions, the
beloved partners of her happiest years, and in the interim to conceal this
frightful determination, was a task that almost conquered her strength of mind.
She had been employed in arranging for their departure; she had promised
Raymond during this decisive evening, to take advantage of our absence, to go
one stage of the journey, and he, after his defeat was ascertained, would slip
away from us, and join her.

Although, when I was informed of this scheme, I was bitterly offended by the
small attention which Raymond paid to my sister’s feelings, I was led by
reflection to consider, that he acted under the force of such strong
excitement, as to take from him the consciousness, and, consequently, the guilt
of a fault. If he had permitted us to witness his agitation, he would have been
more under the guidance of reason; but his struggles for the shew of composure,
acted with such violence on his nerves, as to destroy his power of
self-command. I am convinced that, at the worst, he would have returned from
the seashore to take leave of us, and to make us the partners of his council.
But the task imposed on Perdita was not the less painful. He had extorted from
her a vow of secrecy; and her part of the drama, since it was to be performed
alone, was the most agonizing that could be devised. But to return to my
narrative.

The debates had hitherto been long and loud; they had often been protracted
merely for the sake of delay. But now each seemed fearful lest the fatal moment
should pass, while the choice was yet undecided. Unwonted silence reigned in
the house, the members spoke in whispers, and the ordinary business was
transacted with celerity and quietness. During the first stage of the election,
the Duke of——had been thrown out; the question therefore lay
between Lord Raymond and Mr. Ryland. The latter had felt secure of victory,
until the appearance of Raymond; and, since his name had been inserted as a
candidate, he had canvassed with eagerness. He had appeared each evening,
impatience and anger marked in his looks, scowling on us from the opposite side
of St. Stephen’s, as if his mere frown would cast eclipse on our hopes.

Every thing in the English constitution had been regulated for the better
preservation of peace. On the last day, two candidates only were allowed to
remain; and to obviate, if possible, the last struggle between these, a bribe
was offered to him who should voluntarily resign his pretensions; a place of
great emolument and honour was given him, and his success facilitated at a
future election. Strange to say however, no instance had yet occurred, where
either candidate had had recourse to this expedient; in consequence the law had
become obsolete, nor had been referred to by any of us in our discussions. To
our extreme surprise, when it was moved that we should resolve ourselves into a
committee for the election of the Lord Protector, the member who had nominated
Ryland, rose and informed us that this candidate had resigned his pretensions.
His information was at first received with silence; a confused murmur
succeeded; and, when the chairman declared Lord Raymond duly chosen, it
amounted to a shout of applause and victory. It seemed as if, far from any
dread of defeat even if Mr. Ryland had not resigned, every voice would have
been united in favour of our candidate. In fact, now that the idea of contest
was dismissed, all hearts returned to their former respect and admiration of
our accomplished friend. Each felt, that England had never seen a Protector so
capable of fulfilling the arduous duties of that high office. One voice made of
many voices, resounded through the chamber; it syllabled the name of Raymond.

He entered. I was on one of the highest seats, and saw him walk up the passage
to the table of the speaker. The native modesty of his disposition conquered
the joy of his triumph. He looked round timidly; a mist seemed before his eyes.
Adrian, who was beside me, hastened to him, and jumping down the benches, was
at his side in a moment. His appearance re-animated our friend; and, when he
came to speak and act, his hesitation vanished, and he shone out supreme in
majesty and victory. The former Protector tendered him the oaths, and presented
him with the insignia of office, performing the ceremonies of installation. The
house then dissolved. The chief members of the state crowded round the new
magistrate, and conducted him to the palace of government. Adrian suddenly
vanished; and, by the time that Raymond’s supporters were reduced to our
intimate friends merely, returned leading Idris to congratulate her friend on
his success.

But where was Perdita? In securing solicitously an unobserved retreat in case
of failure, Raymond had forgotten to arrange the mode by which she was to hear
of his success; and she had been too much agitated to revert to this
circumstance. When Idris entered, so far had Raymond forgotten himself, that he
asked for my sister; one word, which told of her mysterious disappearance,
recalled him. Adrian it is true had already gone to seek the fugitive,
imagining that her tameless anxiety had led her to the purlieus of the House,
and that some sinister event detained her. But Raymond, without explaining
himself, suddenly quitted us, and in another moment we heard him gallop down
the street, in spite of the wind and rain that scattered tempest over the
earth. We did not know how far he had to go, and soon separated, supposing that
in a short time he would return to the palace with Perdita, and that they would
not be sorry to find themselves alone.

Perdita had arrived with her child at Dartford, weeping and inconsolable. She
directed everything to be prepared for the continuance of their journey, and
placing her lovely sleeping charge on a bed, passed several hours in acute
suffering. Sometimes she observed the war of elements, thinking that they also
declared against her, and listened to the pattering of the rain in gloomy
despair. Sometimes she hung over her child, tracing her resemblance to the
father, and fearful lest in after life she should display the same passions and
uncontrollable impulses, that rendered him unhappy. Again, with a gush of pride
and delight, she marked in the features of her little girl, the same smile of
beauty that often irradiated Raymond’s countenance. The sight of it
soothed her. She thought of the treasure she possessed in the affections of her
lord; of his accomplishments, surpassing those of his contemporaries, his
genius, his devotion to her.—Soon she thought, that all she possessed in
the world, except him, might well be spared, nay, given with delight, a
propitiatory offering, to secure the supreme good she retained in him. Soon she
imagined, that fate demanded this sacrifice from her, as a mark she was devoted
to Raymond, and that it must be made with cheerfulness. She figured to herself
their life in the Greek isle he had selected for their retreat; her task of
soothing him; her cares for the beauteous Clara, her rides in his company, her
dedication of herself to his consolation. The picture then presented itself to
her in such glowing colours, that she feared the reverse, and a life of
magnificence and power in London; where Raymond would no longer be hers only,
nor she the sole source of happiness to him. So far as she merely was
concerned, she began to hope for defeat; and it was only on his account that
her feelings vacillated, as she heard him gallop into the court-yard of the
inn. That he should come to her alone, wetted by the storm, careless of every
thing except speed, what else could it mean, than that, vanquished and
solitary, they were to take their way from native England, the scene of shame,
and hide themselves in the myrtle groves of the Grecian isles?

In a moment she was in his arms. The knowledge of his success had become so
much a part of himself, that he forgot that it was necessary to impart it to
his companion. She only felt in his embrace a dear assurance that while he
possessed her, he would not despair. “This is kind,” she cried;
“this is noble, my own beloved! O fear not disgrace or lowly fortune,
while you have your Perdita; fear not sorrow, while our child lives and smiles.
Let us go even where you will; the love that accompanies us will prevent our
regrets.”

Locked in his embrace, she spoke thus, and cast back her head, seeking an
assent to her words in his eyes—they were sparkling with ineffable
delight. “Why, my little Lady Protectress,” said he, playfully,
“what is this you say? And what pretty scheme have you woven of exile and
obscurity, while a brighter web, a gold-enwoven tissue, is that which, in
truth, you ought to contemplate?”

He kissed her brow—but the wayward girl, half sorry at his triumph,
agitated by swift change of thought, hid her face in his bosom and wept. He
comforted her; he instilled into her his own hopes and desires; and soon her
countenance beamed with sympathy. How very happy were they that night! How full
even to bursting was their sense of joy!

CHAPTER VII.

Having seen our friend properly installed in his new office, we turned our eyes
towards Windsor. The nearness of this place to London was such, as to take away
the idea of painful separation, when we quitted Raymond and Perdita. We took
leave of them in the Protectoral Palace. It was pretty enough to see my sister
enter as it were into the spirit of the drama, and endeavour to fill her
station with becoming dignity. Her internal pride and humility of manner were
now more than ever at war. Her timidity was not artificial, but arose from that
fear of not being properly appreciated, that slight estimation of the neglect
of the world, which also characterized Raymond. But then Perdita thought more
constantly of others than he; and part of her bashfulness arose from a wish to
take from those around her a sense of inferiority; a feeling which never
crossed her mind. From the circumstances of her birth and education, Idris
would have been better fitted for the formulae of ceremony; but the very ease
which accompanied such actions with her, arising from habit, rendered them
tedious; while, with every drawback, Perdita evidently enjoyed her situation.
She was too full of new ideas to feel much pain when we departed; she took an
affectionate leave of us, and promised to visit us soon; but she did not regret
the circumstances that caused our separation. The spirits of Raymond were
unbounded; he did not know what to do with his new got power; his head was full
of plans; he had as yet decided on none— but he promised himself, his
friends, and the world, that the aera of his Protectorship should be signalized
by some act of surpassing glory. Thus, we talked of them, and moralized, as
with diminished numbers we returned to Windsor Castle. We felt extreme delight
at our escape from political turmoil, and sought our solitude with redoubled
zest. We did not want for occupation; but my eager disposition was now turned
to the field of intellectual exertion only; and hard study I found to be an
excellent medicine to allay a fever of spirit with which in indolence, I should
doubtless have been assailed. Perdita had permitted us to take Clara back with
us to Windsor; and she and my two lovely infants were perpetual sources of
interest and amusement.

The only circumstance that disturbed our peace, was the health of Adrian. It
evidently declined, without any symptom which could lead us to suspect his
disease, unless indeed his brightened eyes, animated look, and flustering
cheeks, made us dread consumption; but he was without pain or fear. He betook
himself to books with ardour, and reposed from study in the society he best
loved, that of his sister and myself. Sometimes he went up to London to visit
Raymond, and watch the progress of events. Clara often accompanied him in these
excursions; partly that she might see her parents, partly because Adrian
delighted in the prattle, and intelligent looks of this lovely child.

Meanwhile all went on well in London. The new elections were finished;
parliament met, and Raymond was occupied in a thousand beneficial schemes.
Canals, aqueducts, bridges, stately buildings, and various edifices for public
utility, were entered upon; he was continually surrounded by projectors and
projects, which were to render England one scene of fertility and magnificence;
the state of poverty was to be abolished; men were to be transported from place
to place almost with the same facility as the Princes Houssain, Ali, and Ahmed,
in the Arabian Nights. The physical state of man would soon not yield to the
beatitude of angels; disease was to be banished; labour lightened of its
heaviest burden. Nor did this seem extravagant. The arts of life, and the
discoveries of science had augmented in a ratio which left all calculation
behind; food sprung up, so to say, spontaneously—machines existed to
supply with facility every want of the population. An evil direction still
survived; and men were not happy, not because they could not, but because they
would not rouse themselves to vanquish self-raised obstacles. Raymond was to
inspire them with his beneficial will, and the mechanism of society, once
systematised according to faultless rules, would never again swerve into
disorder. For these hopes he abandoned his long-cherished ambition of being
enregistered in the annals of nations as a successful warrior; laying aside his
sword, peace and its enduring glories became his aim—the title he coveted
was that of the benefactor of his country.

Among other works of art in which he was engaged, he had projected the erection
of a national gallery for statues and pictures. He possessed many himself,
which he designed to present to the Republic; and, as the edifice was to be the
great ornament of his Protectorship, he was very fastidious in his choice of
the plan on which it would be built. Hundreds were brought to him and rejected.
He sent even to Italy and Greece for drawings; but, as the design was to be
characterized by originality as well as by perfect beauty, his endeavours were
for a time without avail. At length a drawing came, with an address where
communications might be sent, and no artist’s name affixed. The design
was new and elegant, but faulty; so faulty, that although drawn with the hand
and eye of taste, it was evidently the work of one who was not an architect.
Raymond contemplated it with delight; the more he gazed, the more pleased he
was; and yet the errors multiplied under inspection. He wrote to the address
given, desiring to see the draughtsman, that such alterations might be made, as
should be suggested in a consultation between him and the original conceiver.

A Greek came. A middle-aged man, with some intelligence of manner, but with so
common-place a physiognomy, that Raymond could scarcely believe that he was the
designer. He acknowledged that he was not an architect; but the idea of the
building had struck him, though he had sent it without the smallest hope of its
being accepted. He was a man of few words. Raymond questioned him; but his
reserved answers soon made him turn from the man to the drawing. He pointed out
the errors, and the alterations that he wished to be made; he offered the Greek
a pencil that he might correct the sketch on the spot; this was refused by his
visitor, who said that he perfectly understood, and would work at it at home.
At length Raymond suffered him to depart.

The next day he returned. The design had been re-drawn; but many defects still
remained, and several of the instructions given had been misunderstood.
“Come,” said Raymond, “I yielded to you yesterday, now comply
with my request—take the pencil.”

The Greek took it, but he handled it in no artist-like way; at length he said:
“I must confess to you, my Lord, that I did not make this drawing. It is
impossible for you to see the real designer; your instructions must pass
through me. Condescend therefore to have patience with my ignorance, and to
explain your wishes to me; in time I am certain that you will be
satisfied.”

Raymond questioned vainly; the mysterious Greek would say no more. Would an
architect be permitted to see the artist? This also was refused. Raymond
repeated his instructions, and the visitor retired. Our friend resolved however
not to be foiled in his wish. He suspected, that unaccustomed poverty was the
cause of the mystery, and that the artist was unwilling to be seen in the garb
and abode of want. Raymond was only the more excited by this consideration to
discover him; impelled by the interest he took in obscure talent, he therefore
ordered a person skilled in such matters, to follow the Greek the next time he
came, and observe the house in which he should enter. His emissary obeyed, and
brought the desired intelligence. He had traced the man to one of the most
penurious streets in the metropolis. Raymond did not wonder, that, thus
situated, the artist had shrunk from notice, but he did not for this alter his
resolve.

On the same evening, he went alone to the house named to him. Poverty, dirt,
and squalid misery characterized its appearance. Alas! thought Raymond, I have
much to do before England becomes a Paradise. He knocked; the door was opened
by a string from above—the broken, wretched staircase was immediately
before him, but no person appeared; he knocked again, vainly—and then,
impatient of further delay, he ascended the dark, creaking stairs. His main
wish, more particularly now that he witnessed the abject dwelling of the
artist, was to relieve one, possessed of talent, but depressed by want. He
pictured to himself a youth, whose eyes sparkled with genius, whose person was
attenuated by famine. He half feared to displease him; but he trusted that his
generous kindness would be administered so delicately, as not to excite
repulse. What human heart is shut to kindness? and though poverty, in its
excess, might render the sufferer unapt to submit to the supposed degradation
of a benefit, the zeal of the benefactor must at last relax him into
thankfulness. These thoughts encouraged Raymond, as he stood at the door of the
highest room of the house. After trying vainly to enter the other apartments,
he perceived just within the threshold of this one, a pair of small Turkish
slippers; the door was ajar, but all was silent within. It was probable that
the inmate was absent, but secure that he had found the right person, our
adventurous Protector was tempted to enter, to leave a purse on the table, and
silently depart. In pursuance of this idea, he pushed open the door
gently—but the room was inhabited.

Raymond had never visited the dwellings of want, and the scene that now
presented itself struck him to the heart. The floor was sunk in many places;
the walls ragged and bare—the ceiling weather-stained—a tattered
bed stood in the corner; there were but two chairs in the room, and a rough
broken table, on which was a light in a tin candlestick;—yet in the midst
of such drear and heart sickening poverty, there was an air of order and
cleanliness that surprised him. The thought was fleeting; for his attention was
instantly drawn towards the inhabitant of this wretched abode. It was a female.
She sat at the table; one small hand shaded her eyes from the candle; the other
held a pencil; her looks were fixed on a drawing before her, which Raymond
recognized as the design presented to him. Her whole appearance awakened his
deepest interest. Her dark hair was braided and twined in thick knots like the
head-dress of a Grecian statue; her garb was mean, but her attitude might have
been selected as a model of grace. Raymond had a confused remembrance that he
had seen such a form before; he walked across the room; she did not raise her
eyes, merely asking in Romaic, who is there? “A friend,” replied
Raymond in the same dialect. She looked up wondering, and he saw that it was
Evadne Zaimi. Evadne, once the idol of Adrian’s affections; and who, for
the sake of her present visitor, had disdained the noble youth, and then,
neglected by him she loved, with crushed hopes and a stinging sense of misery,
had returned to her native Greece. What revolution of fortune could have
brought her to England, and housed her thus?

Raymond recognized her; and his manner changed from polite beneficence to the
warmest protestations of kindness and sympathy. The sight of her, in her
present situation, passed like an arrow into his soul. He sat by her, he took
her hand, and said a thousand things which breathed the deepest spirit of
compassion and affection. Evadne did not answer; her large dark eyes were cast
down, at length a tear glimmered on the lashes. “Thus,” she cried,
“kindness can do, what no want, no misery ever effected; I weep.”
She shed indeed many tears; her head sunk unconsciously on the shoulder of
Raymond; he held her hand: he kissed her sunken tear-stained cheek. He told
her, that her sufferings were now over: no one possessed the art of consoling
like Raymond; he did not reason or declaim, but his look shone with sympathy;
he brought pleasant images before the sufferer; his caresses excited no
distrust, for they arose purely from the feeling which leads a mother to kiss
her wounded child; a desire to demonstrate in every possible way the truth of
his feelings, and the keenness of his wish to pour balm into the lacerated mind
of the unfortunate. As Evadne regained her composure, his manner became even
gay; he sported with the idea of her poverty. Something told him that it was
not its real evils that lay heavily at her heart, but the debasement and
disgrace attendant on it; as he talked, he divested it of these; sometimes
speaking of her fortitude with energetic praise; then, alluding to her past
state, he called her his Princess in disguise. He made her warm offers of
service; she was too much occupied by more engrossing thoughts, either to
accept or reject them; at length he left her, making a promise to repeat his
visit the next day. He returned home, full of mingled feelings, of pain excited
by Evadne’s wretchedness, and pleasure at the prospect of relieving it.
Some motive for which he did not account, even to himself, prevented him from
relating his adventure to Perdita.

The next day he threw such disguise over his person as a cloak afforded, and
revisited Evadne. As he went, he bought a basket of costly fruits, such as were
natives of her own country, and throwing over these various beautiful flowers,
bore it himself to the miserable garret of his friend. “Behold,”
cried he, as he entered, “what bird’s food I have brought for my
sparrow on the house-top.”

Evadne now related the tale of her misfortunes. Her father, though of high
rank, had in the end dissipated his fortune, and even destroyed his reputation
and influence through a course of dissolute indulgence. His health was impaired
beyond hope of cure; and it became his earnest wish, before he died, to
preserve his daughter from the poverty which would be the portion of her orphan
state. He therefore accepted for her, and persuaded her to accede to, a
proposal of marriage, from a wealthy Greek merchant settled at Constantinople.
She quitted her native Greece; her father died; by degrees she was cut off from
all the companions and ties of her youth.

The war, which about a year before the present time had broken out between
Greece and Turkey, brought about many reverses of fortune. Her husband became
bankrupt, and then in a tumult and threatened massacre on the part of the
Turks, they were obliged to fly at midnight, and reached in an open boat an
English vessel under sail, which brought them immediately to this island. The
few jewels they had saved, supported them awhile. The whole strength of
Evadne’s mind was exerted to support the failing spirits of her husband.
Loss of property, hopelessness as to his future prospects, the inoccupation to
which poverty condemned him, combined to reduce him to a state bordering on
insanity. Five months after their arrival in England, he committed suicide.

“You will ask me,” continued Evadne, “what I have done since;
why I have not applied for succour to the rich Greeks resident here; why I have
not returned to my native country? My answer to these questions must needs
appear to you unsatisfactory, yet they have sufficed to lead me on, day after
day, enduring every wretchedness, rather than by such means to seek relief.
Shall the daughter of the noble, though prodigal Zaimi, appear a beggar before
her compeers or inferiors—superiors she had none. Shall I bow my head
before them, and with servile gesture sell my nobility for life? Had I a child,
or any tie to bind me to existence, I might descend to this—but, as it
is—the world has been to me a harsh step-mother; fain would I leave the
abode she seems to grudge, and in the grave forget my pride, my struggles, my
despair. The time will soon come; grief and famine have already sapped the
foundations of my being; a very short time, and I shall have passed away;
unstained by the crime of self-destruction, unstung by the memory of
degradation, my spirit will throw aside the miserable coil, and find such
recompense as fortitude and resignation may deserve. This may seem madness to
you, yet you also have pride and resolution; do not then wonder that my pride
is tameless, my resolution unalterable.”

Having thus finished her tale, and given such an account as she deemed fit, of
the motives of her abstaining from all endeavour to obtain aid from her
countrymen, Evadne paused; yet she seemed to have more to say, to which she was
unable to give words. In the mean time Raymond was eloquent. His desire of
restoring his lovely friend to her rank in society, and to her lost prosperity,
animated him, and he poured forth with energy, all his wishes and intentions on
that subject. But he was checked; Evadne exacted a promise, that he should
conceal from all her friends her existence in England. “The relatives of
the Earl of Windsor,” said she haughtily, “doubtless think that I
injured him; perhaps the Earl himself would be the first to acquit me, but
probably I do not deserve acquittal. I acted then, as I ever must, from
impulse. This abode of penury may at least prove the disinterestedness of my
conduct. No matter: I do not wish to plead my cause before any of them, not
even before your Lordship, had you not first discovered me. The tenor of my
actions will prove that I had rather die, than be a mark for scorn—behold
the proud Evadne in her tatters! look on the beggar-princess! There is aspic
venom in the thought—promise me that my secret shall not be violated by
you.”

Raymond promised; but then a new discussion ensued. Evadne required another
engagement on his part, that he would not without her concurrence enter into
any project for her benefit, nor himself offer relief. “Do not degrade me
in my own eyes,” she said; “poverty has long been my nurse;
hard-visaged she is, but honest. If dishonour, or what I conceive to be
dishonour, come near me, I am lost.” Raymond adduced many arguments and
fervent persuasions to overcome her feeling, but she remained unconvinced; and,
agitated by the discussion, she wildly and passionately made a solemn vow, to
fly and hide herself where he never could discover her, where famine would soon
bring death to conclude her woes, if he persisted in his to her disgracing
offers. She could support herself, she said. And then she shewed him how, by
executing various designs and paintings, she earned a pittance for her support.
Raymond yielded for the present. He felt assured, after he had for awhile
humoured her self-will, that in the end friendship and reason would gain the
day.

But the feelings that actuated Evadne were rooted in the depths of her being,
and were such in their growth as he had no means of understanding. Evadne loved
Raymond. He was the hero of her imagination, the image carved by love in the
unchanged texture of her heart. Seven years ago, in her youthful prime, she had
become attached to him; he had served her country against the Turks; he had in
her own land acquired that military glory peculiarly dear to the Greeks, since
they were still obliged inch by inch to fight for their security. Yet when he
returned thence, and first appeared in public life in England, her love did not
purchase his, which then vacillated between Perdita and a crown. While he was
yet undecided, she had quitted England; the news of his marriage reached her,
and her hopes, poorly nurtured blossoms, withered and fell. The glory of life
was gone for her; the roseate halo of love, which had imbued every object with
its own colour, faded;—she was content to take life as it was, and to
make the best of leaden-coloured reality. She married; and, carrying her
restless energy of character with her into new scenes, she turned her thoughts
to ambition, and aimed at the title and power of Princess of Wallachia; while
her patriotic feelings were soothed by the idea of the good she might do her
country, when her husband should be chief of this principality. She lived to
find ambition, as unreal a delusion as love. Her intrigues with Russia for the
furtherance of her object, excited the jealousy of the Porte, and the animosity
of the Greek government. She was considered a traitor by both, the ruin of her
husband followed; they avoided death by a timely flight, and she fell from the
height of her desires to penury in England. Much of this tale she concealed
from Raymond; nor did she confess, that repulse and denial, as to a criminal
convicted of the worst of crimes, that of bringing the scythe of foreign
despotism to cut away the new springing liberties of her country, would have
followed her application to any among the Greeks.

She knew that she was the cause of her husband’s utter ruin; and she
strung herself to bear the consequences. The reproaches which agony extorted;
or worse, cureless, uncomplaining depression, when his mind was sunk in a
torpor, not the less painful because it was silent and moveless. She reproached
herself with the crime of his death; guilt and its punishments appeared to
surround her; in vain she endeavoured to allay remorse by the memory of her
real integrity; the rest of the world, and she among them, judged of her
actions, by their consequences. She prayed for her husband’s soul; she
conjured the Supreme to place on her head the crime of his
self-destruction—she vowed to live to expiate his fault.

In the midst of such wretchedness as must soon have destroyed her, one thought
only was matter of consolation. She lived in the same country, breathed the
same air as Raymond. His name as Protector was the burthen of every tongue; his
achievements, projects, and magnificence, the argument of every story. Nothing
is so precious to a woman’s heart as the glory and excellence of him she
loves; thus in every horror Evadne revelled in his fame and prosperity. While
her husband lived, this feeling was regarded by her as a crime, repressed,
repented of. When he died, the tide of love resumed its ancient flow, it
deluged her soul with its tumultuous waves, and she gave herself up a prey to
its uncontrollable power.

But never, O, never, should he see her in her degraded state. Never should he
behold her fallen, as she deemed, from her pride of beauty, the
poverty-stricken inhabitant of a garret, with a name which had become a
reproach, and a weight of guilt on her soul. But though impenetrably veiled
from him, his public office permitted her to become acquainted with all his
actions, his daily course of life, even his conversation. She allowed herself
one luxury, she saw the newspapers every day, and feasted on the praise and
actions of the Protector. Not that this indulgence was devoid of accompanying
grief. Perdita’s name was for ever joined with his; their conjugal
felicity was celebrated even by the authentic testimony of facts. They were
continually together, nor could the unfortunate Evadne read the monosyllable
that designated his name, without, at the same time, being presented with the
image of her who was the faithful companion of all his labours and pleasures.
They, their Excellencies, met her eyes in each line, mingling an
evil potion that poisoned her very blood.

It was in the newspaper that she saw the advertisement for the design for a
national gallery. Combining with taste her remembrance of the edifices which
she had seen in the east, and by an effort of genius enduing them with unity of
design, she executed the plan which had been sent to the Protector. She
triumphed in the idea of bestowing, unknown and forgotten as she was, a benefit
upon him she loved; and with enthusiastic pride looked forward to the
accomplishment of a work of hers, which, immortalized in stone, would go down
to posterity stamped with the name of Raymond. She awaited with eagerness the
return of her messenger from the palace; she listened insatiate to his account
of each word, each look of the Protector; she felt bliss in this communication
with her beloved, although he knew not to whom he addressed his instructions.
The drawing itself became ineffably dear to her. He had seen it, and praised
it; it was again retouched by her, each stroke of her pencil was as a chord of
thrilling music, and bore to her the idea of a temple raised to celebrate the
deepest and most unutterable emotions of her soul. These contemplations engaged
her, when the voice of Raymond first struck her ear, a voice, once heard, never
to be forgotten; she mastered her gush of feelings, and welcomed him with quiet
gentleness.

Pride and tenderness now struggled, and at length made a compromise together.
She would see Raymond, since destiny had led him to her, and her constancy and
devotion must merit his friendship. But her rights with regard to him, and her
cherished independence, should not be injured by the idea of interest, or the
intervention of the complicated feelings attendant on pecuniary obligation, and
the relative situations of the benefactor, and benefited. Her mind was of
uncommon strength; she could subdue her sensible wants to her mental wishes,
and suffer cold, hunger and misery, rather than concede to fortune a contested
point. Alas! that in human nature such a pitch of mental discipline, and
disdainful negligence of nature itself, should not have been allied to the
extreme of moral excellence! But the resolution that permitted her to resist
the pains of privation, sprung from the too great energy of her passions; and
the concentrated self-will of which this was a sign, was destined to destroy
even the very idol, to preserve whose respect she submitted to this detail of
wretchedness.

Their intercourse continued. By degrees Evadne related to her friend the whole
of her story, the stain her name had received in Greece, the weight of sin
which had accrued to her from the death of her husband. When Raymond offered to
clear her reputation, and demonstrate to the world her real patriotism, she
declared that it was only through her present sufferings that she hoped for any
relief to the stings of conscience; that, in her state of mind, diseased as he
might think it, the necessity of occupation was salutary medicine; she ended by
extorting a promise that for the space of one month he would refrain from the
discussion of her interests, engaging after that time to yield in part to his
wishes. She could not disguise to herself that any change would separate her
from him; now she saw him each day. His connection with Adrian and Perdita was
never mentioned; he was to her a meteor, a companionless star, which at its
appointed hour rose in her hemisphere, whose appearance brought felicity, and
which, although it set, was never eclipsed. He came each day to her abode of
penury, and his presence transformed it to a temple redolent with sweets,
radiant with heaven’s own light; he partook of her delirium. “They
built a wall between them and the world”—Without, a thousand
harpies raved, remorse and misery, expecting the destined moment for their
invasion. Within, was the peace as of innocence, reckless blindless, deluding
joy, hope, whose still anchor rested on placid but unconstant water.

Thus, while Raymond had been wrapt in visions of power and fame, while he
looked forward to entire dominion over the elements and the mind of man, the
territory of his own heart escaped his notice; and from that unthought of
source arose the mighty torrent that overwhelmed his will, and carried to the
oblivious sea, fame, hope, and happiness.

CHAPTER VIII.

In the mean time what did Perdita?

During the first months of his Protectorate, Raymond and she had been
inseparable; each project was discussed with her, each plan approved by her. I
never beheld any one so perfectly happy as my sweet sister. Her expressive eyes
were two stars whose beams were love; hope and light-heartedness sat on her
cloudless brow. She fed even to tears of joy on the praise and glory of her
Lord; her whole existence was one sacrifice to him, and if in the humility of
her heart she felt self-complacency, it arose from the reflection that she had
won the distinguished hero of the age, and had for years preserved him, even
after time had taken from love its usual nourishment. Her own feeling was as
entire as at its birth. Five years had failed to destroy the dazzling unreality
of passion. Most men ruthlessly destroy the sacred veil, with which the female
heart is wont to adorn the idol of its affections. Not so Raymond; he was an
enchanter, whose reign was for ever undiminished; a king whose power never was
suspended: follow him through the details of common life, still the same charm
of grace and majesty adorned him; nor could he be despoiled of the innate
deification with which nature had invested him. Perdita grew in beauty and
excellence under his eye; I no longer recognised my reserved abstracted sister
in the fascinating and open-hearted wife of Raymond. The genius that
enlightened her countenance, was now united to an expression of benevolence,
which gave divine perfection to her beauty.

Happiness is in its highest degree the sister of goodness. Suffering and
amiability may exist together, and writers have loved to depict their
conjunction; there is a human and touching harmony in the picture. But perfect
happiness is an attribute of angels; and those who possess it, appear angelic.
Fear has been said to be the parent of religion: even of that religion is it
the generator, which leads its votaries to sacrifice human victims at its
altars; but the religion which springs from happiness is a lovelier growth; the
religion which makes the heart breathe forth fervent thanksgiving, and causes
us to pour out the overflowings of the soul before the author of our being;
that which is the parent of the imagination and the nurse of poetry; that which
bestows benevolent intelligence on the visible mechanism of the world, and
makes earth a temple with heaven for its cope. Such happiness, goodness, and
religion inhabited the mind of Perdita.

During the five years we had spent together, a knot of happy human beings at
Windsor Castle, her blissful lot had been the frequent theme of my
sister’s conversation. From early habit, and natural affection, she
selected me in preference to Adrian or Idris, to be the partner in her
overflowings of delight; perhaps, though apparently much unlike, some secret
point of resemblance, the offspring of consanguinity, induced this preference.
Often at sunset, I have walked with her, in the sober, enshadowed forest paths,
and listened with joyful sympathy. Security gave dignity to her passion; the
certainty of a full return, left her with no wish unfulfilled. The birth of her
daughter, embryo copy of her Raymond, filled up the measure of her content, and
produced a sacred and indissoluble tie between them. Sometimes she felt proud
that he had preferred her to the hopes of a crown. Sometimes she remembered
that she had suffered keen anguish, when he hesitated in his choice. But this
memory of past discontent only served to enhance her present joy. What had been
hardly won, was now, entirely possessed, doubly dear. She would look at him at
a distance with the same rapture, (O, far more exuberant rapture!) that one
might feel, who after the perils of a tempest, should find himself in the
desired port; she would hasten towards him, to feel more certain in his arms,
the reality of her bliss. This warmth of affection, added to the depth of her
understanding, and the brilliancy of her imagination, made her beyond words
dear to Raymond.

If a feeling of dissatisfaction ever crossed her, it arose from the idea that
he was not perfectly happy. Desire of renown, and presumptuous ambition, had
characterized his youth. The one he had acquired in Greece; the other he had
sacrificed to love. His intellect found sufficient field for exercise in his
domestic circle, whose members, all adorned by refinement and literature, were
many of them, like himself, distinguished by genius. Yet active life was the
genuine soil for his virtues; and he sometimes suffered tedium from the
monotonous succession of events in our retirement. Pride made him recoil from
complaint; and gratitude and affection to Perdita, generally acted as an opiate
to all desire, save that of meriting her love. We all observed the visitation
of these feelings, and none regretted them so much as Perdita. Her life
consecrated to him, was a slight sacrifice to reward his choice, but was not
that sufficient—Did he need any gratification that she was unable to
bestow? This was the only cloud in the azure of her happiness.

His passage to power had been full of pain to both. He however attained his
wish; he filled the situation for which nature seemed to have moulded him. His
activity was fed in wholesome measure, without either exhaustion or satiety;
his taste and genius found worthy expression in each of the modes human beings
have invented to encage and manifest the spirit of beauty; the goodness of his
heart made him never weary of conducing to the well-being of his
fellow-creatures; his magnificent spirit, and aspirations for the respect and
love of mankind, now received fruition; true, his exaltation was temporary;
perhaps it were better that it should be so. Habit would not dull his sense of
the enjoyment of power; nor struggles, disappointment and defeat await the end
of that which would expire at its maturity. He determined to extract and
condense all of glory, power, and achievement, which might have resulted from a
long reign, into the three years of his Protectorate.

Raymond was eminently social. All that he now enjoyed would have been devoid of
pleasure to him, had it been unparticipated. But in Perdita he possessed all
that his heart could desire. Her love gave birth to sympathy; her intelligence
made her understand him at a word; her powers of intellect enabled her to
assist and guide him. He felt her worth. During the early years of their union,
the inequality of her temper, and yet unsubdued self-will which tarnished her
character, had been a slight drawback to the fulness of his sentiment. Now that
unchanged serenity, and gentle compliance were added to her other
qualifications, his respect equalled his love. Years added to the strictness of
their union. They did not now guess at, and totter on the pathway, divining the
mode to please, hoping, yet fearing the continuance of bliss. Five years gave a
sober certainty to their emotions, though it did not rob them of their etherial
nature. It had given them a child; but it had not detracted from the personal
attractions of my sister. Timidity, which in her had almost amounted to
awkwardness, was exchanged for a graceful decision of manner; frankness,
instead of reserve, characterized her physiognomy; and her voice was attuned to
thrilling softness. She was now three and twenty, in the pride of womanhood,
fulfilling the precious duties of wife and mother, possessed of all her heart
had ever coveted. Raymond was ten years older; to his previous beauty, noble
mien, and commanding aspect, he now added gentlest benevolence, winning
tenderness, graceful and unwearied attention to the wishes of another.

The first secret that had existed between them was the visits of Raymond to
Evadne. He had been struck by the fortitude and beauty of the ill-fated Greek;
and, when her constant tenderness towards him unfolded itself, he asked with
astonishment, by what act of his he had merited this passionate and unrequited
love. She was for a while the sole object of his reveries; and Perdita became
aware that his thoughts and time were bestowed on a subject unparticipated by
her. My sister was by nature destitute of the common feelings of anxious,
petulant jealousy. The treasure which she possessed in the affections of
Raymond, was more necessary to her being, than the life-blood that animated her
veins—more truly than Othello she might say,

    To be once in doubt,
Is—once to be resolved.

On the present occasion she did not suspect any alienation of affection; but
she conjectured that some circumstance connected with his high place, had
occasioned this mystery. She was startled and pained. She began to count the
long days, and months, and years which must elapse, before he would be restored
to a private station, and unreservedly to her. She was not content that, even
for a time, he should practice concealment with her. She often repined; but her
trust in the singleness of his affection was undisturbed; and, when they were
together, unchecked by fear, she opened her heart to the fullest delight.

Time went on. Raymond, stopping mid-way in his wild career, paused suddenly to
think of consequences. Two results presented themselves in the view he took of
the future. That his intercourse with Evadne should continue a secret to, or
that finally it should be discovered by Perdita. The destitute condition, and
highly wrought feelings of his friend prevented him from adverting to the
possibility of exiling himself from her. In the first event he had bidden an
eternal farewell to open-hearted converse, and entire sympathy with the
companion of his life. The veil must be thicker than that invented by Turkish
jealousy; the wall higher than the unscaleable tower of Vathek, which should
conceal from her the workings of his heart, and hide from her view the secret
of his actions. This idea was intolerably painful to him. Frankness and social
feelings were the essence of Raymond’s nature; without them his qualities
became common-place; without these to spread glory over his intercourse with
Perdita, his vaunted exchange of a throne for her love, was as weak and empty
as the rainbow hues which vanish when the sun is down. But there was no remedy.
Genius, devotion, and courage; the adornments of his mind, and the energies of
his soul, all exerted to their uttermost stretch, could not roll back one
hair’s breadth the wheel of time’s chariot; that which had been was
written with the adamantine pen of reality, on the everlasting volume of the
past; nor could agony and tears suffice to wash out one iota from the act
fulfilled.

But this was the best side of the question. What, if circumstance should lead
Perdita to suspect, and suspecting to be resolved? The fibres of his frame
became relaxed, and cold dew stood on his forehead, at this idea. Many men may
scoff at his dread; but he read the future; and the peace of Perdita was too
dear to him, her speechless agony too certain, and too fearful, not to unman
him. His course was speedily decided upon. If the worst befell; if she learnt
the truth, he would neither stand her reproaches, or the anguish of her altered
looks. He would forsake her, England, his friends, the scenes of his youth, the
hopes of coming time, he would seek another country, and in other scenes begin
life again. Having resolved on this, he became calmer. He endeavoured to guide
with prudence the steeds of destiny through the devious road which he had
chosen, and bent all his efforts the better to conceal what he could not alter.

The perfect confidence that subsisted between Perdita and him, rendered every
communication common between them. They opened each other’s letters, even
as, until now, the inmost fold of the heart of each was disclosed to the other.
A letter came unawares, Perdita read it. Had it contained confirmation, she
must have been annihilated. As it was, trembling, cold, and pale, she sought
Raymond. He was alone, examining some petitions lately presented. She entered
silently, sat on a sofa opposite to him, and gazed on him with a look of such
despair, that wildest shrieks and dire moans would have been tame exhibitions
of misery, compared to the living incarnation of the thing itself exhibited by
her.

At first he did not take his eyes from the papers; when he raised them, he was
struck by the wretchedness manifest on her altered cheek; for a moment he
forgot his own acts and fears, and asked with
consternation—“Dearest girl, what is the matter; what has
happened?”

“Nothing,” she replied at first; “and yet not so,” she
continued, hurrying on in her speech; “you have secrets, Raymond; where
have you been lately, whom have you seen, what do you conceal from
me?—why am I banished from your confidence? Yet this is not it—I do
not intend to entrap you with questions—one will suffice—am I
completely a wretch?”

With trembling hand she gave him the paper, and sat white and motionless
looking at him while he read it. He recognised the hand-writing of Evadne, and
the colour mounted in his cheeks. With lightning-speed he conceived the
contents of the letter; all was now cast on one die; falsehood and artifice
were trifles in comparison with the impending ruin. He would either entirely
dispel Perdita’s suspicions, or quit her for ever. “My dear
girl,” he said, “I have been to blame; but you must pardon me. I
was in the wrong to commence a system of concealment; but I did it for the sake
of sparing you pain; and each day has rendered it more difficult for me to
alter my plan. Besides, I was instigated by delicacy towards the unhappy writer
of these few lines.”

Perdita gasped: “Well,” she cried, “well, go on!”

“That is all—this paper tells all. I am placed in the most
difficult circumstances. I have done my best, though perhaps I have done wrong.
My love for you is inviolate.”

Perdita shook her head doubtingly: “It cannot be,” she cried,
“I know that it is not. You would deceive me, but I will not be deceived.
I have lost you, myself, my life!”

“Do you not believe me?” said Raymond haughtily.

“To believe you,” she exclaimed, “I would give up all, and
expire with joy, so that in death I could feel that you were true—but
that cannot be!”

“Perdita,” continued Raymond, “you do not see the precipice
on which you stand. You may believe that I did not enter on my present line of
conduct without reluctance and pain. I knew that it was possible that your
suspicions might be excited; but I trusted that my simple word would cause them
to disappear. I built my hope on your confidence. Do you think that I will be
questioned, and my replies disdainfully set aside? Do you think that I will be
suspected, perhaps watched, cross-questioned, and disbelieved? I am not yet
fallen so low; my honour is not yet so tarnished. You have loved me; I adored
you. But all human sentiments come to an end. Let our affection
expire—but let it not be exchanged for distrust and recrimination.
Heretofore we have been friends—lovers—let us not become enemies,
mutual spies. I cannot live the object of suspicion—you cannot believe
me—let us part!”

“Exactly so,” cried Perdita, “I knew that it would come to
this! Are we not already parted? Does not a stream, boundless as ocean, deep as
vacuum, yawn between us?”

Raymond rose, his voice was broken, his features convulsed, his manner calm as
the earthquake-cradling atmosphere, he replied: “I am rejoiced that you
take my decision so philosophically. Doubtless you will play the part of the
injured wife to admiration. Sometimes you may be stung with the feeling that
you have wronged me, but the condolence of your relatives, the pity of the
world, the complacency which the consciousness of your own immaculate innocence
will bestow, will be excellent balm;—me you will never see more!”

Raymond moved towards the door. He forgot that each word he spoke was false. He
personated his assumption of innocence even to self-deception. Have not actors
wept, as they pourtrayed imagined passion? A more intense feeling of the
reality of fiction possessed Raymond. He spoke with pride; he felt injured.
Perdita looked up; she saw his angry glance; his hand was on the lock of the
door. She started up, she threw herself on his neck, she gasped and sobbed; he
took her hand, and leading her to the sofa, sat down near her. Her head fell on
his shoulder, she trembled, alternate changes of fire and ice ran through her
limbs: observing her emotion he spoke with softened accents:

“The blow is given. I will not part from you in anger;—I owe you
too much. I owe you six years of unalloyed happiness. But they are passed. I
will not live the mark of suspicion, the object of jealousy. I love you too
well. In an eternal separation only can either of us hope for dignity and
propriety of action. We shall not then be degraded from our true characters.
Faith and devotion have hitherto been the essence of our
intercourse;—these lost, let us not cling to the seedless husk of life,
the unkernelled shell. You have your child, your brother, Idris,
Adrian”—

“And you,” cried Perdita, “the writer of that letter.”

Uncontrollable indignation flashed from the eyes of Raymond. He knew that this
accusation at least was false. “Entertain this belief,” he cried,
“hug it to your heart—make it a pillow to your head, an opiate for
your eyes —I am content. But, by the God that made me, hell is not more
false than the word you have spoken!”

Perdita was struck by the impassioned seriousness of his asseverations. She
replied with earnestness, “I do not refuse to believe you, Raymond; on
the contrary I promise to put implicit faith in your simple word. Only assure
me that your love and faith towards me have never been violated; and suspicion,
and doubt, and jealousy will at once be dispersed. We shall continue as we have
ever done, one heart, one hope, one life.”

“I have already assured you of my fidelity,” said Raymond with
disdainful coldness, “triple assertions will avail nothing where one is
despised. I will say no more; for I can add nothing to what I have already
said, to what you before contemptuously set aside. This contention is unworthy
of both of us; and I confess that I am weary of replying to charges at once
unfounded and unkind.”

Perdita tried to read his countenance, which he angrily averted. There was so
much of truth and nature in his resentment, that her doubts were dispelled. Her
countenance, which for years had not expressed a feeling unallied to affection,
became again radiant and satisfied. She found it however no easy task to soften
and reconcile Raymond. At first he refused to stay to hear her. But she would
not be put off; secure of his unaltered love, she was willing to undertake any
labour, use any entreaty, to dispel his anger. She obtained an hearing, he sat
in haughty silence, but he listened. She first assured him of her boundless
confidence; of this he must be conscious, since but for that she would not seek
to detain him. She enumerated their years of happiness; she brought before him
past scenes of intimacy and happiness; she pictured their future life, she
mentioned their child—tears unbidden now filled her eyes. She tried to
disperse them, but they refused to be checked—her utterance was choaked.
She had not wept before. Raymond could not resist these signs of distress: he
felt perhaps somewhat ashamed of the part he acted of the injured man, he who
was in truth the injurer. And then he devoutly loved Perdita; the bend of her
head, her glossy ringlets, the turn of her form were to him subjects of deep
tenderness and admiration; as she spoke, her melodious tones entered his soul;
he soon softened towards her, comforting and caressing her, and endeavouring to
cheat himself into the belief that he had never wronged her.

Raymond staggered forth from this scene, as a man might do, who had been just
put to the torture, and looked forward to when it would be again inflicted. He
had sinned against his own honour, by affirming, swearing to, a direct
falsehood; true this he had palmed on a woman, and it might therefore be deemed
less base—by others—not by him;—for whom had he
deceived?—his own trusting, devoted, affectionate Perdita, whose generous
belief galled him doubly, when he remembered the parade of innocence with which
it had been exacted. The mind of Raymond was not so rough cast, nor had been so
rudely handled, in the circumstance of life, as to make him proof to these
considerations—on the contrary, he was all nerve; his spirit was as a
pure fire, which fades and shrinks from every contagion of foul atmosphere: but
now the contagion had become incorporated with its essence, and the change was
the more painful. Truth and falsehood, love and hate lost their eternal
boundaries, heaven rushed in to mingle with hell; while his sensitive mind,
turned to a field for such battle, was stung to madness. He heartily despised
himself, he was angry with Perdita, and the idea of Evadne was attended by all
that was hideous and cruel. His passions, always his masters, acquired fresh
strength, from the long sleep in which love had cradled them, the clinging
weight of destiny bent him down; he was goaded, tortured, fiercely impatient of
that worst of miseries, the sense of remorse. This troubled state yielded by
degrees, to sullen animosity, and depression of spirits. His dependants, even
his equals, if in his present post he had any, were startled to find anger,
derision, and bitterness in one, before distinguished for suavity and
benevolence of manner. He transacted public business with distaste, and
hastened from it to the solitude which was at once his bane and relief. He
mounted a fiery horse, that which had borne him forward to victory in Greece;
he fatigued himself with deadening exercise, losing the pangs of a troubled
mind in animal sensation.

He slowly recovered himself; yet, at last, as one might from the effects of
poison, he lifted his head from above the vapours of fever and passion into the
still atmosphere of calm reflection. He meditated on what was best to be done.
He was first struck by the space of time that had elapsed, since madness,
rather than any reasonable impulse, had regulated his actions. A month had gone
by, and during that time he had not seen Evadne. Her power, which was linked to
few of the enduring emotions of his heart, had greatly decayed. He was no
longer her slave—no longer her lover: he would never see her more, and by
the completeness of his return, deserve the confidence of Perdita.

Yet, as he thus determined, fancy conjured up the miserable abode of the Greek
girl. An abode, which from noble and lofty principle, she had refused to
exchange for one of greater luxury. He thought of the splendour of her
situation and appearance when he first knew her; he thought of her life at
Constantinople, attended by every circumstance of oriental magnificence; of her
present penury, her daily task of industry, her lorn state, her faded,
famine-struck cheek. Compassion swelled his breast; he would see her once
again; he would devise some plan for restoring her to society, and the
enjoyment of her rank; their separation would then follow, as a matter of
course.

Again he thought, how during this long month, he had avoided Perdita, flying
from her as from the stings of his own conscience. But he was awake now; all
this should be remedied; and future devotion erase the memory of this only blot
on the serenity of their life. He became cheerful, as he thought of this, and
soberly and resolutely marked out the line of conduct he would adopt. He
remembered that he had promised Perdita to be present this very evening (the
19th of October, anniversary of his election as Protector) at a festival given
in his honour. Good augury should this festival be of the happiness of future
years. First, he would look in on Evadne; he would not stay; but he owed her
some account, some compensation for his long and unannounced absence; and then
to Perdita, to the forgotten world, to the duties of society, the splendour of
rank, the enjoyment of power.

After the scene sketched in the preceding pages, Perdita had contemplated an
entire change in the manners and conduct of Raymond. She expected freedom of
communication, and a return to those habits of affectionate intercourse which
had formed the delight of her life. But Raymond did not join her in any of her
avocations. He transacted the business of the day apart from her; he went out,
she knew not whither. The pain inflicted by this disappointment was tormenting
and keen. She looked on it as a deceitful dream, and tried to throw off the
consciousness of it; but like the shirt of Nessus, it clung to her very flesh,
and ate with sharp agony into her vital principle. She possessed that (though
such an assertion may appear a paradox) which belongs to few, a capacity of
happiness. Her delicate organization and creative imagination rendered her
peculiarly susceptible of pleasurable emotion. The overflowing warmth of her
heart, by making love a plant of deep root and stately growth, had attuned her
whole soul to the reception of happiness, when she found in Raymond all that
could adorn love and satisfy her imagination. But if the sentiment on which the
fabric of her existence was founded, became common place through participation,
the endless succession of attentions and graceful action snapt by transfer, his
universe of love wrested from her, happiness must depart, and then be exchanged
for its opposite. The same peculiarities of character rendered her sorrows
agonies; her fancy magnified them, her sensibility made her for ever open to
their renewed impression; love envenomed the heart-piercing sting. There was
neither submission, patience, nor self-abandonment in her grief; she fought
with it, struggled beneath it, and rendered every pang more sharp by
resistance. Again and again the idea recurred, that he loved another. She did
him justice; she believed that he felt a tender affection for her; but give a
paltry prize to him who in some life-pending lottery has calculated on the
possession of tens of thousands, and it will disappoint him more than a blank.
The affection and amity of a Raymond might be inestimable; but, beyond that
affection, embosomed deeper than friendship, was the indivisible treasure of
love. Take the sum in its completeness, and no arithmetic can calculate its
price; take from it the smallest portion, give it but the name of parts,
separate it into degrees and sections, and like the magician’s coin, the
valueless gold of the mine, is turned to vilest substance. There is a meaning
in the eye of love; a cadence in its voice, an irradiation in its smile, the
talisman of whose enchantments one only can possess; its spirit is elemental,
its essence single, its divinity an unit. The very heart and soul of Raymond
and Perdita had mingled, even as two mountain brooks that join in their
descent, and murmuring and sparkling flow over shining pebbles, beside starry
flowers; but let one desert its primal course, or be dammed up by choaking
obstruction, and the other shrinks in its altered banks. Perdita was sensible
of the failing of the tide that fed her life. Unable to support the slow
withering of her hopes, she suddenly formed a plan, resolving to terminate at
once the period of misery, and to bring to an happy conclusion the late
disastrous events.

The anniversary was at hand of the exaltation of Raymond to the office of
Protector; and it was customary to celebrate this day by a splendid festival. A
variety of feelings urged Perdita to shed double magnificence over the scene;
yet, as she arrayed herself for the evening gala, she wondered herself at the
pains she took, to render sumptuous the celebration of an event which appeared
to her the beginning of her sufferings. Woe befall the day, she thought, woe,
tears, and mourning betide the hour, that gave Raymond another hope than love,
another wish than my devotion; and thrice joyful the moment when he shall be
restored to me! God knows, I put my trust in his vows, and believe his asserted
faith—but for that, I would not seek what I am now resolved to attain.
Shall two years more be thus passed, each day adding to our alienation, each
act being another stone piled on the barrier which separates us? No, my
Raymond, my only beloved, sole possession of Perdita! This night, this splendid
assembly, these sumptuous apartments, and this adornment of your tearful girl,
are all united to celebrate your abdication. Once for me, you relinquished the
prospect of a crown. That was in days of early love, when I could only hold out
the hope, not the assurance of happiness. Now you have the experience of all
that I can give, the heart’s devotion, taintless love, and unhesitating
subjection to you. You must choose between these and your protectorate. This,
proud noble, is your last night! Perdita has bestowed on it all of magnificent
and dazzling that your heart best loves—but, from these gorgeous rooms,
from this princely attendance, from power and elevation, you must return with
to-morrow’s sun to our rural abode; for I would not buy an immortality of
joy, by the endurance of one more week sister to the last.

Brooding over this plan, resolved when the hour should come, to propose, and
insist upon its accomplishment, secure of his consent, the heart of Perdita was
lightened, or rather exalted. Her cheek was flushed by the expectation of
struggle; her eyes sparkled with the hope of triumph. Having cast her fate upon
a die, and feeling secure of winning, she, whom I have named as bearing the
stamp of queen of nations on her noble brow, now rose superior to humanity, and
seemed in calm power, to arrest with her finger, the wheel of destiny. She had
never before looked so supremely lovely.

We, the Arcadian shepherds of the tale, had intended to be present at this
festivity, but Perdita wrote to entreat us not to come, or to absent ourselves
from Windsor; for she (though she did not reveal her scheme to us) resolved the
next morning to return with Raymond to our dear circle, there to renew a course
of life in which she had found entire felicity. Late in the evening she entered
the apartments appropriated to the festival. Raymond had quitted the palace the
night before; he had promised to grace the assembly, but he had not yet
returned. Still she felt sure that he would come at last; and the wider the
breach might appear at this crisis, the more secure she was of closing it for
ever.

It was as I said, the nineteenth of October; the autumn was far advanced and
dreary. The wind howled; the half bare trees were despoiled of the remainder of
their summer ornament; the state of the air which induced the decay of
vegetation, was hostile to cheerfulness or hope. Raymond had been exalted by
the determination he had made; but with the declining day his spirits declined.
First he was to visit Evadne, and then to hasten to the palace of the
Protectorate. As he walked through the wretched streets in the neighbourhood of
the luckless Greek’s abode, his heart smote him for the whole course of
his conduct towards her. First, his having entered into any engagement that
should permit her to remain in such a state of degradation; and then, after a
short wild dream, having left her to drear solitude, anxious conjecture, and
bitter, still—disappointed expectation. What had she done the while, how
supported his absence and neglect? Light grew dim in these close streets, and
when the well known door was opened, the staircase was shrouded in perfect
night. He groped his way up, he entered the garret, he found Evadne stretched
speechless, almost lifeless on her wretched bed. He called for the people of
the house, but could learn nothing from them, except that they knew nothing.
Her story was plain to him, plain and distinct as the remorse and horror that
darted their fangs into him. When she found herself forsaken by him, she lost
the heart to pursue her usual avocations; pride forbade every application to
him; famine was welcomed as the kind porter to the gates of death, within whose
opening folds she should now, without sin, quickly repose. No creature came
near her, as her strength failed.

If she died, where could there be found on record a murderer, whose cruel act
might compare with his? What fiend more wanton in his mischief, what damned
soul more worthy of perdition! But he was not reserved for this agony of
self-reproach. He sent for medical assistance; the hours passed, spun by
suspense into ages; the darkness of the long autumnal night yielded to day,
before her life was secure. He had her then removed to a more commodious
dwelling, and hovered about her, again and again to assure himself that she was
safe.

In the midst of his greatest suspense and fear as to the event, he remembered
the festival given in his honour, by Perdita; in his honour then, when misery
and death were affixing indelible disgrace to his name, honour to him whose
crimes deserved a scaffold; this was the worst mockery. Still Perdita would
expect him; he wrote a few incoherent words on a scrap of paper, testifying
that he was well, and bade the woman of the house take it to the palace, and
deliver it into the hands of the wife of the Lord Protector. The woman, who did
not know him, contemptuously asked, how he thought she should gain admittance,
particularly on a festal night, to that lady’s presence? Raymond gave her
his ring to ensure the respect of the menials. Thus, while Perdita was
entertaining her guests, and anxiously awaiting the arrival of her lord, his
ring was brought her; and she was told that a poor woman had a note to deliver
to her from its wearer.

The vanity of the old gossip was raised by her commission, which, after all,
she did not understand, since she had no suspicion, even now that
Evadne’s visitor was Lord Raymond. Perdita dreaded a fall from his horse,
or some similar accident—till the woman’s answers woke other fears.
From a feeling of cunning blindly exercised, the officious, if not malignant
messenger, did not speak of Evadne’s illness; but she garrulously gave an
account of Raymond’s frequent visits, adding to her narration such
circumstances, as, while they convinced Perdita of its truth, exaggerated the
unkindness and perfidy of Raymond. Worst of all, his absence now from the
festival, his message wholly unaccounted for, except by the disgraceful hints
of the woman, appeared the deadliest insult. Again she looked at the ring, it
was a small ruby, almost heart-shaped, which she had herself given him. She
looked at the hand-writing, which she could not mistake, and repeated to
herself the words—“Do not, I charge you, I entreat you, permit your
guests to wonder at my absence:” the while the old crone going on with
her talk, filled her ear with a strange medley of truth and falsehood. At
length Perdita dismissed her.

The poor girl returned to the assembly, where her presence had not been missed.
She glided into a recess somewhat obscured, and leaning against an ornamental
column there placed, tried to recover herself. Her faculties were palsied. She
gazed on some flowers that stood near in a carved vase: that morning she had
arranged them, they were rare and lovely plants; even now all aghast as she
was, she observed their brilliant colours and starry
shapes.—“Divine infoliations of the spirit of beauty,” she
exclaimed, “Ye droop not, neither do ye mourn; the despair that clasps my
heart, has not spread contagion over you!—Why am I not a partner of your
insensibility, a sharer in your calm!”

She paused. “To my task,” she continued mentally, “my guests
must not perceive the reality, either as it regards him or me. I obey; they
shall not, though I die the moment they are gone. They shall behold the
antipodes of what is real—for I will appear to live—while I
am—dead.” It required all her self-command, to suppress the gush of
tears self-pity caused at this idea. After many struggles, she succeeded, and
turned to join the company.

All her efforts were now directed to the dissembling her internal conflict. She
had to play the part of a courteous hostess; to attend to all; to shine the
focus of enjoyment and grace. She had to do this, while in deep woe she sighed
for loneliness, and would gladly have exchanged her crowded rooms for dark
forest depths, or a drear, night-enshadowed heath. But she became gay. She
could not keep in the medium, nor be, as was usual with her, placidly content.
Every one remarked her exhilaration of spirits; as all actions appear graceful
in the eye of rank, her guests surrounded her applaudingly, although there was
a sharpness in her laugh, and an abruptness in her sallies, which might have
betrayed her secret to an attentive observer. She went on, feeling that, if she
had paused for a moment, the checked waters of misery would have deluged her
soul, that her wrecked hopes would raise their wailing voices, and that those
who now echoed her mirth, and provoked her repartees, would have shrunk in fear
from her convulsive despair. Her only consolation during the violence which she
did herself, was to watch the motions of an illuminated clock, and internally
count the moments which must elapse before she could be alone.

At length the rooms began to thin. Mocking her own desires, she rallied her
guests on their early departure. One by one they left her—at length she
pressed the hand of her last visitor. “How cold and damp your hand
is,” said her friend; “you are over fatigued, pray hasten to
rest.” Perdita smiled faintly—her guest left her; the carriage
rolling down the street assured the final departure. Then, as if pursued by an
enemy, as if wings had been at her feet, she flew to her own apartment, she
dismissed her attendants, she locked the doors, she threw herself wildly on the
floor, she bit her lips even to blood to suppress her shrieks, and lay long a
prey to the vulture of despair, striving not to think, while multitudinous
ideas made a home of her heart; and ideas, horrid as furies, cruel as vipers,
and poured in with such swift succession, that they seemed to jostle and wound
each other, while they worked her up to madness.

At length she rose, more composed, not less miserable. She stood before a large
mirror—she gazed on her reflected image; her light and graceful dress,
the jewels that studded her hair, and encircled her beauteous arms and neck,
her small feet shod in satin, her profuse and glossy tresses, all were to her
clouded brow and woe-begone countenance like a gorgeous frame to a dark
tempest-pourtraying picture. “Vase am I,” she thought, “vase
brimful of despair’s direst essence. Farewell, Perdita! farewell, poor
girl! never again will you see yourself thus; luxury and wealth are no longer
yours; in the excess of your poverty you may envy the homeless beggar; most
truly am I without a home! I live on a barren desart, which, wide and
interminable, brings forth neither fruit or flower; in the midst is a solitary
rock, to which thou, Perdita, art chained, and thou seest the dreary level
stretch far away.”

She threw open her window, which looked on the palace-garden. Light and
darkness were struggling together, and the orient was streaked by roseate and
golden rays. One star only trembled in the depth of the kindling atmosphere.
The morning air blowing freshly over the dewy plants, rushed into the heated
room. “All things go on,” thought Perdita, “all things
proceed, decay, and perish! When noontide has passed, and the weary day has
driven her team to their western stalls, the fires of heaven rise from the
East, moving in their accustomed path, they ascend and descend the skiey hill.
When their course is fulfilled, the dial begins to cast westward an uncertain
shadow; the eye-lids of day are opened, and birds and flowers, the startled
vegetation, and fresh breeze awaken; the sun at length appears, and in majestic
procession climbs the capitol of heaven. All proceeds, changes and dies, except
the sense of misery in my bursting heart.

“Ay, all proceeds and changes: what wonder then, that love has journied
on to its setting, and that the lord of my life has changed? We call the
supernal lights fixed, yet they wander about yonder plain, and if I look again
where I looked an hour ago, the face of the eternal heavens is altered. The
silly moon and inconstant planets vary nightly their erratic dance; the sun
itself, sovereign of the sky, ever and anon deserts his throne, and leaves his
dominion to night and winter. Nature grows old, and shakes in her decaying
limbs,—creation has become bankrupt! What wonder then, that eclipse and
death have led to destruction the light of thy life, O Perdita!”

CHAPTER IX.

Thus sad and disarranged were the thoughts of my poor sister, when she became
assured of the infidelity of Raymond. All her virtues and all her defects
tended to make the blow incurable. Her affection for me, her brother, for
Adrian and Idris, was subject as it were to the reigning passion of her heart;
even her maternal tenderness borrowed half its force from the delight she had
in tracing Raymond’s features and expression in the infant’s
countenance. She had been reserved and even stern in childhood; but love had
softened the asperities of her character, and her union with Raymond had caused
her talents and affections to unfold themselves; the one betrayed, and the
other lost, she in some degree returned to her ancient disposition. The
concentrated pride of her nature, forgotten during her blissful dream, awoke,
and with its adder’s sting pierced her heart; her humility of spirit
augmented the power of the venom; she had been exalted in her own estimation,
while distinguished by his love: of what worth was she, now that he thrust her
from this preferment? She had been proud of having won and preserved
him—but another had won him from her, and her exultation was as cold as a
water quenched ember.

We, in our retirement, remained long in ignorance of her misfortune. Soon after
the festival she had sent for her child, and then she seemed to have forgotten
us. Adrian observed a change during a visit that he afterward paid them; but he
could not tell its extent, or divine the cause. They still appeared in public
together, and lived under the same roof. Raymond was as usual courteous, though
there was, on occasions, an unbidden haughtiness, or painful abruptness in his
manners, which startled his gentle friend; his brow was not clouded but disdain
sat on his lips, and his voice was harsh. Perdita was all kindness and
attention to her lord; but she was silent, and beyond words sad. She had grown
thin and pale; and her eyes often filled with tears. Sometimes she looked at
Raymond, as if to say—That it should be so! At others her countenance
expressed—I will still do all I can to make you happy. But Adrian read
with uncertain aim the charactery of her face, and might mistake.—Clara
was always with her, and she seemed most at ease, when, in an obscure corner,
she could sit holding her child’s hand, silent and lonely. Still Adrian
was unable to guess the truth; he entreated them to visit us at Windsor, and
they promised to come during the following month.

It was May before they arrived: the season had decked the forest trees with
leaves, and its paths with a thousand flowers. We had notice of their intention
the day before; and, early in the morning, Perdita arrived with her daughter.
Raymond would follow soon, she said; he had been detained by business.
According to Adrian’s account, I had expected to find her sad; but, on
the contrary, she appeared in the highest spirits: true, she had grown thin,
her eyes were somewhat hollow, and her cheeks sunk, though tinged by a bright
glow. She was delighted to see us; caressed our children, praised their growth
and improvement; Clara also was pleased to meet again her young friend Alfred;
all kinds of childish games were entered into, in which Perdita joined. She
communicated her gaiety to us, and as we amused ourselves on the Castle
Terrace, it appeared that a happier, less care-worn party could not have been
assembled. “This is better, Mamma,” said Clara, “than being
in that dismal London, where you often cry, and never laugh as you do
now.”—“Silence, little foolish thing,” replied her
mother, “and remember any one that mentions London is sent to Coventry
for an hour.”

Soon after, Raymond arrived. He did not join as usual in the playful spirit of
the rest; but, entering into conversation with Adrian and myself, by degrees we
seceded from our companions, and Idris and Perdita only remained with the
children. Raymond talked of his new buildings; of his plan for an establishment
for the better education of the poor; as usual Adrian and he entered into
argument, and the time slipped away unperceived.

We assembled again towards evening, and Perdita insisted on our having recourse
to music. She wanted, she said, to give us a specimen of her new
accomplishment; for since she had been in London, she had applied herself to
music, and sang, without much power, but with a great deal of sweetness. We
were not permitted by her to select any but light-hearted melodies; and all the
Operas of Mozart were called into service, that we might choose the most
exhilarating of his airs. Among the other transcendant attributes of
Mozart’s music, it possesses more than any other that of appearing to
come from the heart; you enter into the passions expressed by him, and are
transported with grief, joy, anger, or confusion, as he, our soul’s
master, chooses to inspire. For some time, the spirit of hilarity was kept up;
but, at length, Perdita receded from the piano, for Raymond had joined in the
trio of “Taci ingiusto core,” in Don Giovanni, whose arch
entreaty was softened by him into tenderness, and thrilled her heart with
memories of the changed past; it was the same voice, the same tone, the
self-same sounds and words, which often before she had received, as the homage
of love to her—no longer was it that; and this concord of sound with its
dissonance of expression penetrated her with regret and despair. Soon after
Idris, who was at the harp, turned to that passionate and sorrowful air in
Figaro, “Porgi, amor, qualche ristoro,” in which the
deserted Countess laments the change of the faithless Almaviva. The soul of
tender sorrow is breathed forth in this strain; and the sweet voice of Idris,
sustained by the mournful chords of her instrument, added to the expression of
the words. During the pathetic appeal with which it concludes, a stifled sob
attracted our attention to Perdita, the cessation of the music recalled her to
herself, she hastened out of the hall—I followed her. At first, she
seemed to wish to shun me; and then, yielding to my earnest questioning, she
threw herself on my neck, and wept aloud:—“Once more,” she
cried, “once more on your friendly breast, my beloved brother, can the
lost Perdita pour forth her sorrows. I had imposed a law of silence on myself;
and for months I have kept it. I do wrong in weeping now, and greater wrong in
giving words to my grief. I will not speak! Be it enough for you to know that I
am miserable—be it enough for you to know, that the painted veil of life
is rent, that I sit for ever shrouded in darkness and gloom, that grief is my
sister, everlasting lamentation my mate!”

I endeavoured to console her; I did not question her! but I caressed her,
assured her of my deepest affection and my intense interest in the changes of
her fortune:—“Dear words,” she cried, “expressions of
love come upon my ear, like the remembered sounds of forgotten music, that had
been dear to me. They are vain, I know; how very vain in their attempt to
soothe or comfort me. Dearest Lionel, you cannot guess what I have suffered
during these long months. I have read of mourners in ancient days, who clothed
themselves in sackcloth, scattered dust upon their heads, ate their bread
mingled with ashes, and took up their abode on the bleak mountain tops,
reproaching heaven and earth aloud with their misfortunes. Why this is the very
luxury of sorrow! thus one might go on from day to day contriving new
extravagances, revelling in the paraphernalia of woe, wedded to all the
appurtenances of despair. Alas! I must for ever conceal the wretchedness that
consumes me. I must weave a veil of dazzling falsehood to hide my grief from
vulgar eyes, smoothe my brow, and paint my lips in deceitful smiles—even
in solitude I dare not think how lost I am, lest I become insane and
rave.”

The tears and agitation of my poor sister had rendered her unfit to return to
the circle we had left—so I persuaded her to let me drive her through the
park; and, during the ride, I induced her to confide the tale of her
unhappiness to me, fancying that talking of it would lighten the burthen, and
certain that, if there were a remedy, it should be found and secured to her.

Several weeks had elapsed since the festival of the anniversary, and she had
been unable to calm her mind, or to subdue her thoughts to any regular train.
Sometimes she reproached herself for taking too bitterly to heart, that which
many would esteem an imaginary evil; but this was no subject for reason; and,
ignorant as she was of the motives and true conduct of Raymond, things assumed
for her even a worse appearance, than the reality warranted. He was seldom at
the palace; never, but when he was assured that his public duties would prevent
his remaining alone with Perdita. They seldom addressed each other, shunning
explanation, each fearing any communication the other might make. Suddenly,
however, the manners of Raymond changed; he appeared to desire to find
opportunities of bringing about a return to kindness and intimacy with my
sister. The tide of love towards her appeared to flow again; he could never
forget, how once he had been devoted to her, making her the shrine and
storehouse wherein to place every thought and every sentiment. Shame seemed to
hold him back; yet he evidently wished to establish a renewal of confidence and
affection. From the moment Perdita had sufficiently recovered herself to form
any plan of action, she had laid one down, which now she prepared to follow.
She received these tokens of returning love with gentleness; she did not shun
his company; but she endeavoured to place a barrier in the way of familiar
intercourse or painful discussion, which mingled pride and shame prevented
Raymond from surmounting. He began at last to shew signs of angry impatience,
and Perdita became aware that the system she had adopted could not continue;
she must explain herself to him; she could not summon courage to
speak—she wrote thus:—

“Read this letter with patience, I entreat you. It will contain no
reproaches. Reproach is indeed an idle word: for what should I reproach you?

“Allow me in some degree to explain my feeling; without that, we shall
both grope in the dark, mistaking one another; erring from the path which may
conduct, one of us at least, to a more eligible mode of life than that led by
either during the last few weeks.

“I loved you—I love you—neither anger nor pride dictates
these lines; but a feeling beyond, deeper, and more unalterable than either. My
affections are wounded; it is impossible to heal them:—cease then the
vain endeavour, if indeed that way your endeavours tend. Forgiveness! Return!
Idle words are these! I forgive the pain I endure; but the trodden path cannot
be retraced.

“Common affection might have been satisfied with common usages. I
believed that you read my heart, and knew its devotion, its unalienable
fidelity towards you. I never loved any but you. You came the embodied image of
my fondest dreams. The praise of men, power and high aspirations attended your
career. Love for you invested the world for me in enchanted light; it was no
longer the earth I trod—the earth, common mother, yielding only trite and
stale repetition of objects and circumstances old and worn out. I lived in a
temple glorified by intensest sense of devotion and rapture; I walked, a
consecrated being, contemplating only your power, your excellence;

For O, you stood beside me, like my youth,
Transformed for me the real to a dream,
Cloathing the palpable and familiar
With golden exhalations of the dawn.

‘The bloom has vanished from my life’—there is no morning to
this all investing night; no rising to the set-sun of love. In those days the
rest of the world was nothing to me: all other men—I never considered nor
felt what they were; nor did I look on you as one of them. Separated from them;
exalted in my heart; sole possessor of my affections; single object of my
hopes, the best half of myself.

“Ah, Raymond, were we not happy? Did the sun shine on any, who could
enjoy its light with purer and more intense bliss? It was not—it is not a
common infidelity at which I repine. It is the disunion of an whole which may
not have parts; it is the carelessness with which you have shaken off the
mantle of election with which to me you were invested, and have become one
among the many. Dream not to alter this. Is not love a divinity, because it is
immortal? Did not I appear sanctified, even to myself, because this love had
for its temple my heart? I have gazed on you as you slept, melted even to
tears, as the idea filled my mind, that all I possessed lay cradled in those
idolized, but mortal lineaments before me. Yet, even then, I have checked
thick-coming fears with one thought; I would not fear death, for the emotions
that linked us must be immortal.

“And now I do not fear death. I should be well pleased to close my eyes,
never more to open them again. And yet I fear it; even as I fear all things;
for in any state of being linked by the chain of memory with this, happiness
would not return—even in Paradise, I must feel that your love was less
enduring than the mortal beatings of my fragile heart, every pulse of which
knells audibly,

    The funeral note
Of love, deep buried, without resurrection.

No—no—me miserable; for love extinct there is no resurrection!

“Yet I love you. Yet, and for ever, would I contribute all I possess to
your welfare. On account of a tattling world; for the sake of my—of our
child, I would remain by you, Raymond, share your fortunes, partake your
counsel. Shall it be thus? We are no longer lovers; nor can I call myself a
friend to any; since, lost as I am, I have no thought to spare from my own
wretched, engrossing self. But it will please me to see you each day! to listen
to the public voice praising you; to keep up your paternal love for our girl;
to hear your voice; to know that I am near you, though you are no longer mine.

“If you wish to break the chains that bind us, say the word, and it shall
be done—I will take all the blame on myself, of harshness or unkindness,
in the world’s eye.

“Yet, as I have said, I should be best pleased, at least for the present,
to live under the same roof with you. When the fever of my young life is spent;
when placid age shall tame the vulture that devours me, friendship may come,
love and hope being dead. May this be true? Can my soul, inextricably linked to
this perishable frame, become lethargic and cold, even as this sensitive
mechanism shall lose its youthful elasticity? Then, with lack-lustre eyes, grey
hairs, and wrinkled brow, though now the words sound hollow and meaningless,
then, tottering on the grave’s extreme edge, I may be—your
affectionate and true friend,

“PERDITA.”

Raymond’s answer was brief. What indeed could he reply to her complaints,
to her griefs which she jealously paled round, keeping out all thought of
remedy. “Notwithstanding your bitter letter,” he wrote, “for
bitter I must call it, you are the chief person in my estimation, and it is
your happiness that I would principally consult. Do that which seems best to
you: and if you can receive gratification from one mode of life in preference
to another, do not let me be any obstacle. I foresee that the plan which you
mark out in your letter will not endure long; but you are mistress of yourself,
and it is my sincere wish to contribute as far as you will permit me to your
happiness.”

“Raymond has prophesied well,” said Perdita, “alas, that it
should be so! our present mode of life cannot continue long, yet I will not be
the first to propose alteration. He beholds in me one whom he has injured even
unto death; and I derive no hope from his kindness; no change can possibly be
brought about even by his best intentions. As well might Cleopatra have worn as
an ornament the vinegar which contained her dissolved pearl, as I be content
with the love that Raymond can now offer me.”

I own that I did not see her misfortune with the same eyes as Perdita. At all
events methought that the wound could be healed; and, if they remained
together, it would be so. I endeavoured therefore to sooth and soften her mind;
and it was not until after many endeavours that I gave up the task as
impracticable. Perdita listened to me impatiently, and answered with some
asperity:—“Do you think that any of your arguments are new to me?
or that my own burning wishes and intense anguish have not suggested them all a
thousand times, with far more eagerness and subtlety than you can put into
them? Lionel, you cannot understand what woman’s love is. In days of
happiness I have often repeated to myself, with a grateful heart and exulting
spirit, all that Raymond sacrificed for me. I was a poor, uneducated,
unbefriended, mountain girl, raised from nothingness by him. All that I
possessed of the luxuries of life came from him. He gave me an illustrious name
and noble station; the world’s respect reflected from his own glory: all
this joined to his own undying love, inspired me with sensations towards him,
akin to those with which we regard the Giver of life. I gave him love only. I
devoted myself to him: imperfect creature that I was, I took myself to task,
that I might become worthy of him. I watched over my hasty temper, subdued my
burning impatience of character, schooled my self-engrossing thoughts,
educating myself to the best perfection I might attain, that the fruit of my
exertions might be his happiness. I took no merit to myself for this. He
deserved it all—all labour, all devotion, all sacrifice; I would have
toiled up a scaleless Alp, to pluck a flower that would please him. I was ready
to quit you all, my beloved and gifted companions, and to live only with him,
for him. I could not do otherwise, even if I had wished; for if we are said to
have two souls, he was my better soul, to which the other was a perpetual
slave. One only return did he owe me, even fidelity. I earned that; I deserved
it. Because I was mountain bred, unallied to the noble and wealthy, shall he
think to repay me by an empty name and station? Let him take them back; without
his love they are nothing to me. Their only merit in my eyes was that they were
his.”

Thus passionately Perdita ran on. When I adverted to the question of their
entire separation, she replied: “Be it so! One day the period will
arrive; I know it, and feel it. But in this I am a coward. This imperfect
companionship, and our masquerade of union, are strangely dear to me. It is
painful, I allow, destructive, impracticable. It keeps up a perpetual fever in
my veins; it frets my immedicable wound; it is instinct with poison. Yet I must
cling to it; perhaps it will kill me soon, and thus perform a thankful
office.”

In the mean time, Raymond had remained with Adrian and Idris. He was naturally
frank; the continued absence of Perdita and myself became remarkable; and
Raymond soon found relief from the constraint of months, by an unreserved
confidence with his two friends. He related to them the situation in which he
had found Evadne. At first, from delicacy to Adrian he concealed her name; but
it was divulged in the course of his narrative, and her former lover heard with
the most acute agitation the history of her sufferings. Idris had shared
Perdita’s ill opinion of the Greek; but Raymond’s account softened
and interested her. Evadne’s constancy, fortitude, even her ill-fated and
ill-regulated love, were matter of admiration and pity; especially when, from
the detail of the events of the nineteenth of October, it was apparent that she
preferred suffering and death to any in her eyes degrading application for the
pity and assistance of her lover. Her subsequent conduct did not diminish this
interest. At first, relieved from famine and the grave, watched over by Raymond
with the tenderest assiduity, with that feeling of repose peculiar to
convalescence, Evadne gave herself up to rapturous gratitude and love. But
reflection returned with health. She questioned him with regard to the motives
which had occasioned his critical absence. She framed her enquiries with Greek
subtlety; she formed her conclusions with the decision and firmness peculiar to
her disposition. She could not divine, that the breach which she had occasioned
between Raymond and Perdita was already irreparable: but she knew, that under
the present system it would be widened each day, and that its result must be to
destroy her lover’s happiness, and to implant the fangs of remorse in his
heart. From the moment that she perceived the right line of conduct, she
resolved to adopt it, and to part from Raymond for ever. Conflicting passions,
long-cherished love, and self-inflicted disappointment, made her regard death
alone as sufficient refuge for her woe. But the same feelings and opinions
which had before restrained her, acted with redoubled force; for she knew that
the reflection that he had occasioned her death, would pursue Raymond through
life, poisoning every enjoyment, clouding every prospect. Besides, though the
violence of her anguish made life hateful, it had not yet produced that
monotonous, lethargic sense of changeless misery which for the most part
produces suicide. Her energy of character induced her still to combat with the
ills of life; even those attendant on hopeless love presented themselves,
rather in the shape of an adversary to be overcome, than of a victor to whom
she must submit. Besides, she had memories of past tenderness to cherish,
smiles, words, and even tears, to con over, which, though remembered in
desertion and sorrow, were to be preferred to the forgetfulness of the grave.
It was impossible to guess at the whole of her plan. Her letter to Raymond gave
no clue for discovery; it assured him, that she was in no danger of wanting the
means of life; she promised in it to preserve herself, and some future day
perhaps to present herself to him in a station not unworthy of her. She then
bade him, with the eloquence of despair and of unalterable love, a last
farewell.

All these circumstances were now related to Adrian and Idris. Raymond then
lamented the cureless evil of his situation with Perdita. He declared,
notwithstanding her harshness, he even called it coldness, that he loved her.
He had been ready once with the humility of a penitent, and the duty of a
vassal, to surrender himself to her; giving up his very soul to her tutelage,
to become her pupil, her slave, her bondsman. She had rejected these advances;
and the time for such exuberant submission, which must be founded on love and
nourished by it, was now passed. Still all his wishes and endeavours were
directed towards her peace, and his chief discomfort arose from the perception
that he exerted himself in vain. If she were to continue inflexible in the line
of conduct she now pursued, they must part. The combinations and occurrences of
this senseless mode of intercourse were maddening to him. Yet he would not
propose the separation. He was haunted by the fear of causing the death of one
or other of the beings implicated in these events; and he could not persuade
himself to undertake to direct the course of events, lest, ignorant of the land
he traversed, he should lead those attached to the car into irremediable ruin.

After a discussion on this subject, which lasted for several hours, he took
leave of his friends, and returned to town, unwilling to meet Perdita before
us, conscious, as we all must be, of the thoughts uppermost in the minds of
both. Perdita prepared to follow him with her child. Idris endeavoured to
persuade her to remain. My poor sister looked at the counsellor with affright.
She knew that Raymond had conversed with her; had he instigated this
request?—was this to be the prelude to their eternal separation?—I
have said, that the defects of her character awoke and acquired vigour from her
unnatural position. She regarded with suspicion the invitation of Idris; she
embraced me, as if she were about to be deprived of my affection also: calling
me her more than brother, her only friend, her last hope, she pathetically
conjured me not to cease to love her; and with encreased anxiety she departed
for London, the scene and cause of all her misery.

The scenes that followed, convinced her that she had not yet fathomed the
obscure gulph into which she had plunged. Her unhappiness assumed every day a
new shape; every day some unexpected event seemed to close, while in fact it
led onward, the train of calamities which now befell her.

The selected passion of the soul of Raymond was ambition. Readiness of talent,
a capacity of entering into, and leading the dispositions of men; earnest
desire of distinction were the awakeners and nurses of his ambition. But other
ingredients mingled with these, and prevented him from becoming the
calculating, determined character, which alone forms a successful hero. He was
obstinate, but not firm; benevolent in his first movements; harsh and reckless
when provoked. Above all, he was remorseless and unyielding in the pursuit of
any object of desire, however lawless. Love of pleasure, and the softer
sensibilities of our nature, made a prominent part of his character, conquering
the conqueror; holding him in at the moment of acquisition; sweeping away
ambition’s web; making him forget the toil of weeks, for the sake of one
moment’s indulgence of the new and actual object of his wishes. Obeying
these impulses, he had become the husband of Perdita: egged on by them, he
found himself the lover of Evadne. He had now lost both. He had neither the
ennobling self-gratulation, which constancy inspires, to console him, nor the
voluptuous sense of abandonment to a forbidden, but intoxicating passion. His
heart was exhausted by the recent events; his enjoyment of life was destroyed
by the resentment of Perdita, and the flight of Evadne; and the inflexibility
of the former, set the last seal upon the annihilation of his hopes. As long as
their disunion remained a secret, he cherished an expectation of re-awakening
past tenderness in her bosom; now that we were all made acquainted with these
occurrences, and that Perdita, by declaring her resolves to others, in a manner
pledged herself to their accomplishment, he gave up the idea of re-union as
futile, and sought only, since he was unable to influence her to change, to
reconcile himself to the present state of things. He made a vow against love
and its train of struggles, disappointment and remorse, and sought in mere
sensual enjoyment, a remedy for the injurious inroads of passion.

Debasement of character is the certain follower of such pursuits. Yet this
consequence would not have been immediately remarkable, if Raymond had
continued to apply himself to the execution of his plans for the public
benefit, and the fulfilling his duties as Protector. But, extreme in all
things, given up to immediate impressions, he entered with ardour into this new
pursuit of pleasure, and followed up the incongruous intimacies occasioned by
it without reflection or foresight. The council-chamber was deserted; the
crowds which attended on him as agents to his various projects were neglected.
Festivity, and even libertinism, became the order of the day.

Perdita beheld with affright the encreasing disorder. For a moment she thought
that she could stem the torrent, and that Raymond could be induced to hear
reason from her.—Vain hope! The moment of her influence was passed. He
listened with haughtiness, replied disdainfully; and, if in truth, she
succeeded in awakening his conscience, the sole effect was that he sought an
opiate for the pang in oblivious riot. With the energy natural to her, Perdita
then endeavoured to supply his place. Their still apparent union permitted her
to do much; but no woman could, in the end, present a remedy to the encreasing
negligence of the Protector; who, as if seized with a paroxysm of insanity,
trampled on all ceremony, all order, all duty, and gave himself up to license.

Reports of these strange proceedings reached us, and we were undecided what
method to adopt to restore our friend to himself and his country, when Perdita
suddenly appeared among us. She detailed the progress of the mournful change,
and entreated Adrian and myself to go up to London, and endeavour to remedy the
encreasing evil:—“Tell him,” she cried, “tell Lord
Raymond, that my presence shall no longer annoy him. That he need not plunge
into this destructive dissipation for the sake of disgusting me, and causing me
to fly. This purpose is now accomplished; he will never see me more. But let
me, it is my last entreaty, let me in the praises of his countrymen and the
prosperity of England, find the choice of my youth justified.”

During our ride up to town, Adrian and I discussed and argued upon
Raymond’s conduct, and his falling off from the hopes of permanent
excellence on his part, which he had before given us cause to entertain. My
friend and I had both been educated in one school, or rather I was his pupil in
the opinion, that steady adherence to principle was the only road to honour; a
ceaseless observance of the laws of general utility, the only conscientious aim
of human ambition. But though we both entertained these ideas, we differed in
their application. Resentment added also a sting to my censure; and I
reprobated Raymond’s conduct in severe terms. Adrian was more benign,
more considerate. He admitted that the principles that I laid down were the
best; but he denied that they were the only ones. Quoting the text, there
are many mansions in my father’s house, he insisted that the modes of
becoming good or great, varied as much as the dispositions of men, of whom it
might be said, as of the leaves of the forest, there were no two alike.

We arrived in London at about eleven at night. We conjectured, notwithstanding
what we had heard, that we should find Raymond in St. Stephen’s: thither
we sped. The chamber was full—but there was no Protector; and there was
an austere discontent manifest on the countenances of the leaders, and a
whispering and busy tattle among the underlings, not less ominous. We hastened
to the palace of the Protectorate. We found Raymond in his dining room with six
others: the bottle was being pushed about merrily, and had made considerable
inroads on the understanding of one or two. He who sat near Raymond was telling
a story, which convulsed the rest with laughter.

Raymond sat among them, though while he entered into the spirit of the hour,
his natural dignity never forsook him. He was gay, playful,
fascinating—but never did he overstep the modesty of nature, or the
respect due to himself, in his wildest sallies. Yet I own, that considering the
task which Raymond had taken on himself as Protector of England, and the cares
to which it became him to attend, I was exceedingly provoked to observe the
worthless fellows on whom his time was wasted, and the jovial if not drunken
spirit which seemed on the point of robbing him of his better self. I stood
watching the scene, while Adrian flitted like a shadow in among them, and, by a
word and look of sobriety, endeavoured to restore order in the assembly.
Raymond expressed himself delighted to see him, declaring that he should make
one in the festivity of the night.

This action of Adrian provoked me. I was indignant that he should sit at the
same table with the companions of Raymond—men of abandoned characters, or
rather without any, the refuse of high-bred luxury, the disgrace of their
country. “Let me entreat Adrian,” I cried, “not to comply:
rather join with me in endeavouring to withdraw Lord Raymond from this scene,
and restore him to other society.”

“My good fellow,” said Raymond, “this is neither the time nor
place for the delivery of a moral lecture: take my word for it that my
amusements and society are not so bad as you imagine. We are neither hypocrites
or fools —for the rest, ‘Dost thou think because thou art virtuous,
there shall be no more cakes and ale?’”

I turned angrily away: “Verney,” said Adrian, “you are very
cynical: sit down; or if you will not, perhaps, as you are not a frequent
visitor, Lord Raymond will humour you, and accompany us, as we had previously
agreed upon, to parliament.”

Raymond looked keenly at him; he could read benignity only in his gentle
lineaments; he turned to me, observing with scorn my moody and stern demeanour.
“Come,” said Adrian, “I have promised for you, enable me to
keep my engagement. Come with us.”—Raymond made an uneasy movement,
and laconically replied—“I won’t!”

The party in the mean time had broken up. They looked at the pictures, strolled
into the other apartments, talked of billiards, and one by one vanished.
Raymond strode angrily up and down the room. I stood ready to receive and reply
to his reproaches. Adrian leaned against the wall. “This is infinitely
ridiculous,” he cried, “if you were school-boys, you could not
conduct yourselves more unreasonably.”

“You do not understand,” said Raymond. “This is only part of
a system:—a scheme of tyranny to which I will never submit. Because I am
Protector of England, am I to be the only slave in its empire? My privacy
invaded, my actions censured, my friends insulted? But I will get rid of the
whole together.—Be you witnesses,” and he took the star, insignia
of office, from his breast, and threw it on the table. “I renounce my
office, I abdicate my power—assume it who will!”—-

“Let him assume it,” exclaimed Adrian, “who can pronounce
himself, or whom the world will pronounce to be your superior. There does not
exist the man in England with adequate presumption. Know yourself, Raymond, and
your indignation will cease; your complacency return. A few months ago,
whenever we prayed for the prosperity of our country, or our own, we at the
same time prayed for the life and welfare of the Protector, as indissolubly
linked to it. Your hours were devoted to our benefit, your ambition was to
obtain our commendation. You decorated our towns with edifices, you bestowed on
us useful establishments, you gifted the soil with abundant fertility. The
powerful and unjust cowered at the steps of your judgment-seat, and the poor
and oppressed arose like morn-awakened flowers under the sunshine of your
protection.

“Can you wonder that we are all aghast and mourn, when this appears
changed? But, come, this splenetic fit is already passed; resume your
functions; your partizans will hail you; your enemies be silenced; our love,
honour, and duty will again be manifested towards you. Master yourself,
Raymond, and the world is subject to you.”

“All this would be very good sense, if addressed to another,”
replied Raymond, moodily, “con the lesson yourself, and you, the first
peer of the land, may become its sovereign. You the good, the wise, the just,
may rule all hearts. But I perceive, too soon for my own happiness, too late
for England’s good, that I undertook a task to which I am unequal. I
cannot rule myself. My passions are my masters; my smallest impulse my tyrant.
Do you think that I renounced the Protectorate (and I have renounced it) in a
fit of spleen? By the God that lives, I swear never to take up that bauble
again; never again to burthen myself with the weight of care and misery, of
which that is the visible sign.

“Once I desired to be a king. It was in the hey-day of youth, in the
pride of boyish folly. I knew myself when I renounced it. I renounced it to
gain —no matter what—for that also I have lost. For many months I
have submitted to this mock majesty—this solemn jest. I am its dupe no
longer. I will be free.

“I have lost that which adorned and dignified my life; that which linked
me to other men. Again I am a solitary man; and I will become again, as in my
early years, a wanderer, a soldier of fortune. My friends, for Verney, I feel
that you are my friend, do not endeavour to shake my resolve. Perdita, wedded
to an imagination, careless of what is behind the veil, whose charactery is in
truth faulty and vile, Perdita has renounced me. With her it was pretty enough
to play a sovereign’s part; and, as in the recesses of your beloved
forest we acted masques, and imagined ourselves Arcadian shepherds, to please
the fancy of the moment—so was I content, more for Perdita’s sake
than my own, to take on me the character of one of the great ones of the earth;
to lead her behind the scenes of grandeur, to vary her life with a short act of
magnificence and power. This was to be the colour; love and confidence the
substance of our existence. But we must live, and not act our lives; pursuing
the shadow, I lost the reality—now I renounce both.

“Adrian, I am about to return to Greece, to become again a soldier,
perhaps a conqueror. Will you accompany me? You will behold new scenes; see a
new people; witness the mighty struggle there going forward between
civilization and barbarism; behold, and perhaps direct the efforts of a young
and vigorous population, for liberty and order. Come with me. I have expected
you. I waited for this moment; all is prepared;—will you accompany
me?”

“I will,” replied Adrian. “Immediately?”

“To-morrow if you will.”

“Reflect!” I cried.

“Wherefore?” asked Raymond—“My dear fellow, I have done
nothing else than reflect on this step the live-long summer; and be assured
that Adrian has condensed an age of reflection into this little moment. Do not
talk of reflection; from this moment I abjure it; this is my only happy moment
during a long interval of time. I must go, Lionel—the Gods will it; and I
must. Do not endeavour to deprive me of my companion, the out-cast’s
friend.

“One word more concerning unkind, unjust Perdita. For a time, I thought
that, by watching a complying moment, fostering the still warm ashes, I might
relume in her the flame of love. It is more cold within her, than a fire left
by gypsies in winter-time, the spent embers crowned by a pyramid of snow. Then,
in endeavouring to do violence to my own disposition, I made all worse than
before. Still I think, that time, and even absence, may restore her to me.
Remember, that I love her still, that my dearest hope is that she will again be
mine. I know, though she does not, how false the veil is which she has spread
over the reality—do not endeavour to rend this deceptive covering, but by
degrees withdraw it. Present her with a mirror, in which she may know herself;
and, when she is an adept in that necessary but difficult science, she will
wonder at her present mistake, and hasten to restore to me, what is by right
mine, her forgiveness, her kind thoughts, her love.”

CHAPTER X.

After these events, it was long before we were able to attain any degree of
composure. A moral tempest had wrecked our richly freighted vessel, and we,
remnants of the diminished crew, were aghast at the losses and changes which we
had undergone. Idris passionately loved her brother, and could ill brook an
absence whose duration was uncertain; his society was dear and necessary to
me—I had followed up my chosen literary occupations with delight under
his tutorship and assistance; his mild philosophy, unerring reason, and
enthusiastic friendship were the best ingredient, the exalted spirit of our
circle; even the children bitterly regretted the loss of their kind playfellow.
Deeper grief oppressed Perdita. In spite of resentment, by day and night she
figured to herself the toils and dangers of the wanderers. Raymond absent,
struggling with difficulties, lost to the power and rank of the Protectorate,
exposed to the perils of war, became an object of anxious interest; not that
she felt any inclination to recall him, if recall must imply a return to their
former union. Such return she felt to be impossible; and while she believed it
to be thus, and with anguish regretted that so it should be, she continued
angry and impatient with him, who occasioned her misery. These perplexities and
regrets caused her to bathe her pillow with nightly tears, and to reduce her in
person and in mind to the shadow of what she had been. She sought solitude, and
avoided us when in gaiety and unrestrained affection we met in a family circle.
Lonely musings, interminable wanderings, and solemn music were her only
pastimes. She neglected even her child; shutting her heart against all
tenderness, she grew reserved towards me, her first and fast friend.

I could not see her thus lost, without exerting myself to remedy the evil
—remediless I knew, if I could not in the end bring her to reconcile
herself to Raymond. Before he went I used every argument, every persuasion to
induce her to stop his journey. She answered the one with a gush of
tears—telling me that to be persuaded—life and the goods of life
were a cheap exchange. It was not will that she wanted, but the capacity; again
and again she declared, it were as easy to enchain the sea, to put reins on the
wind’s viewless courses, as for her to take truth for falsehood, deceit
for honesty, heartless communion for sincere, confiding love. She answered my
reasonings more briefly, declaring with disdain, that the reason was hers; and,
until I could persuade her that the past could be unacted, that maturity could
go back to the cradle, and that all that was could become as though it had
never been, it was useless to assure her that no real change had taken place in
her fate. And thus with stern pride she suffered him to go, though her very
heart-strings cracked at the fulfilling of the act, which rent from her all
that made life valuable.

To change the scene for her, and even for ourselves, all unhinged by the cloud
that had come over us, I persuaded my two remaining companions that it were
better that we should absent ourselves for a time from Windsor. We visited the
north of England, my native Ulswater, and lingered in scenes dear from a
thousand associations. We lengthened our tour into Scotland, that we might see
Loch Katrine and Loch Lomond; thence we crossed to Ireland, and passed several
weeks in the neighbourhood of Killarney. The change of scene operated to a
great degree as I expected; after a year’s absence, Perdita returned in
gentler and more docile mood to Windsor. The first sight of this place for a
time unhinged her. Here every spot was distinct with associations now grown
bitter. The forest glades, the ferny dells, and lawny uplands, the cultivated
and cheerful country spread around the silver pathway of ancient Thames, all
earth, air, and wave, took up one choral voice, inspired by memory, instinct
with plaintive regret.

But my essay towards bringing her to a saner view of her own situation, did not
end here. Perdita was still to a great degree uneducated. When first she left
her peasant life, and resided with the elegant and cultivated Evadne, the only
accomplishment she brought to any perfection was that of painting, for which
she had a taste almost amounting to genius. This had occupied her in her lonely
cottage, when she quitted her Greek friend’s protection. Her pallet and
easel were now thrown aside; did she try to paint, thronging recollections made
her hand tremble, her eyes fill with tears. With this occupation she gave up
almost every other; and her mind preyed upon itself almost to madness.

For my own part, since Adrian had first withdrawn me from my selvatic
wilderness to his own paradise of order and beauty, I had been wedded to
literature. I felt convinced that however it might have been in former times,
in the present stage of the world, no man’s faculties could be developed,
no man’s moral principle be enlarged and liberal, without an extensive
acquaintance with books. To me they stood in the place of an active career, of
ambition, and those palpable excitements necessary to the multitude. The
collation of philosophical opinions, the study of historical facts, the
acquirement of languages, were at once my recreation, and the serious aim of my
life. I turned author myself. My productions however were sufficiently
unpretending; they were confined to the biography of favourite historical
characters, especially those whom I believed to have been traduced, or about
whom clung obscurity and doubt.

As my authorship increased, I acquired new sympathies and pleasures. I found
another and a valuable link to enchain me to my fellow-creatures; my point of
sight was extended, and the inclinations and capacities of all human beings
became deeply interesting to me. Kings have been called the fathers of their
people. Suddenly I became as it were the father of all mankind. Posterity
became my heirs. My thoughts were gems to enrich the treasure house of
man’s intellectual possessions; each sentiment was a precious gift I
bestowed on them. Let not these aspirations be attributed to vanity. They were
not expressed in words, nor even reduced to form in my own mind; but they
filled my soul, exalting my thoughts, raising a glow of enthusiasm, and led me
out of the obscure path in which I before walked, into the bright
noon-enlightened highway of mankind, making me, citizen of the world, a
candidate for immortal honors, an eager aspirant to the praise and sympathy of
my fellow men.

No one certainly ever enjoyed the pleasures of composition more intensely than
I. If I left the woods, the solemn music of the waving branches, and the
majestic temple of nature, I sought the vast halls of the Castle, and looked
over wide, fertile England, spread beneath our regal mount, and listened the
while to inspiring strains of music. At such times solemn harmonies or
spirit-stirring airs gave wings to my lagging thoughts, permitting them,
methought, to penetrate the last veil of nature and her God, and to display the
highest beauty in visible expression to the understandings of men. As the music
went on, my ideas seemed to quit their mortal dwelling house; they shook their
pinions and began a flight, sailing on the placid current of thought, filling
the creation with new glory, and rousing sublime imagery that else had slept
voiceless. Then I would hasten to my desk, weave the new-found web of mind in
firm texture and brilliant colours, leaving the fashioning of the material to a
calmer moment.

But this account, which might as properly belong to a former period of my life
as to the present moment, leads me far afield. It was the pleasure I took in
literature, the discipline of mind I found arise from it, that made me eager to
lead Perdita to the same pursuits. I began with light hand and gentle
allurement; first exciting her curiosity, and then satisfying it in such a way
as might occasion her, at the same time that she half forgot her sorrows in
occupation, to find in the hours that succeeded a reaction of benevolence and
toleration.

Intellectual activity, though not directed towards books, had always been my
sister’s characteristic. It had been displayed early in life, leading her
out to solitary musing among her native mountains, causing her to form
innumerous combinations from common objects, giving strength to her
perceptions, and swiftness to their arrangement. Love had come, as the rod of
the master-prophet, to swallow up every minor propensity. Love had doubled all
her excellencies, and placed a diadem on her genius. Was she to cease to love?
Take the colours and odour from the rose, change the sweet nutriment of
mother’s milk to gall and poison; as easily might you wean Perdita from
love. She grieved for the loss of Raymond with an anguish, that exiled all
smile from her lips, and trenched sad lines on her brow of beauty. But each day
seemed to change the nature of her suffering, and every succeeding hour forced
her to alter (if so I may style it) the fashion of her soul’s mourning
garb. For a time music was able to satisfy the cravings of her mental hunger,
and her melancholy thoughts renewed themselves in each change of key, and
varied with every alteration in the strain. My schooling first impelled her
towards books; and, if music had been the food of sorrow, the productions of
the wise became its medicine. The acquisition of unknown languages was too
tedious an occupation, for one who referred every expression to the universe
within, and read not, as many do, for the mere sake of filling up time; but who
was still questioning herself and her author, moulding every idea in a thousand
ways, ardently desirous for the discovery of truth in every sentence. She
sought to improve her understanding; mechanically her heart and dispositions
became soft and gentle under this benign discipline. After awhile she
discovered, that amidst all her newly acquired knowledge, her own character,
which formerly she fancied that she thoroughly understood, became the first in
rank among the terrae incognitae, the pathless wilds of a country that had no
chart. Erringly and strangely she began the task of self-examination with
self-condemnation. And then again she became aware of her own excellencies, and
began to balance with juster scales the shades of good and evil. I, who longed
beyond words, to restore her to the happiness it was still in her power to
enjoy, watched with anxiety the result of these internal proceedings.

But man is a strange animal. We cannot calculate on his forces like that of an
engine; and, though an impulse draw with a forty-horse power at what appears
willing to yield to one, yet in contempt of calculation the movement is not
effected. Neither grief, philosophy, nor love could make Perdita think with
mildness of the dereliction of Raymond. She now took pleasure in my society;
towards Idris she felt and displayed a full and affectionate sense of her
worth—she restored to her child in abundant measure her tenderness and
care. But I could discover, amidst all her repinings, deep resentment towards
Raymond, and an unfading sense of injury, that plucked from me my hope, when I
appeared nearest to its fulfilment. Among other painful restrictions, she has
occasioned it to become a law among us, never to mention Raymond’s name
before her. She refused to read any communications from Greece, desiring me
only to mention when any arrived, and whether the wanderers were well. It was
curious that even little Clara observed this law towards her mother. This
lovely child was nearly eight years of age. Formerly she had been a
light-hearted infant, fanciful, but gay and childish. After the departure of
her father, thought became impressed on her young brow. Children, unadepts in
language, seldom find words to express their thoughts, nor could we tell in
what manner the late events had impressed themselves on her mind. But certainly
she had made deep observations while she noted in silence the changes that
passed around her. She never mentioned her father to Perdita, she appeared half
afraid when she spoke of him to me, and though I tried to draw her out on the
subject, and to dispel the gloom that hung about her ideas concerning him, I
could not succeed. Yet each foreign post-day she watched for the arrival of
letters—knew the post mark, and watched me as I read. I found her often
poring over the article of Greek intelligence in the newspaper.

There is no more painful sight than that of untimely care in children, and it
was particularly observable in one whose disposition had heretofore been
mirthful. Yet there was so much sweetness and docility about Clara, that your
admiration was excited; and if the moods of mind are calculated to paint the
cheek with beauty, and endow motions with grace, surely her contemplations must
have been celestial; since every lineament was moulded into loveliness, and her
motions were more harmonious than the elegant boundings of the fawns of her
native forest. I sometimes expostulated with Perdita on the subject of her
reserve; but she rejected my counsels, while her daughter’s sensibility
excited in her a tenderness still more passionate.

After the lapse of more than a year, Adrian returned from Greece.

When our exiles had first arrived, a truce was in existence between the Turks
and Greeks; a truce that was as sleep to the mortal frame, signal of renewed
activity on waking. With the numerous soldiers of Asia, with all of warlike
stores, ships, and military engines, that wealth and power could command, the
Turks at once resolved to crush an enemy, which creeping on by degrees, had
from their stronghold in the Morea, acquired Thrace and Macedonia, and had led
their armies even to the gates of Constantinople, while their extensive
commercial relations gave every European nation an interest in their success.
Greece prepared for a vigorous resistance; it rose to a man; and the women,
sacrificing their costly ornaments, accoutred their sons for the war, and bade
them conquer or die with the spirit of the Spartan mother. The talents and
courage of Raymond were highly esteemed among the Greeks. Born at Athens, that
city claimed him for her own, and by giving him the command of her peculiar
division in the army, the commander-in-chief only possessed superior power. He
was numbered among her citizens, his name was added to the list of Grecian
heroes. His judgment, activity, and consummate bravery, justified their choice.
The Earl of Windsor became a volunteer under his friend.

“It is well,” said Adrian, “to prate of war in these pleasant
shades, and with much ill-spent oil make a show of joy, because many thousand
of our fellow-creatures leave with pain this sweet air and natal earth. I shall
not be suspected of being averse to the Greek cause; I know and feel its
necessity; it is beyond every other a good cause. I have defended it with my
sword, and was willing that my spirit should be breathed out in its defence;
freedom is of more worth than life, and the Greeks do well to defend their
privilege unto death. But let us not deceive ourselves. The Turks are men; each
fibre, each limb is as feeling as our own, and every spasm, be it mental or
bodily, is as truly felt in a Turk’s heart or brain, as in a
Greek’s. The last action at which I was present was the taking of
——. The Turks resisted to the last, the garrison perished on the
ramparts, and we entered by assault. Every breathing creature within the walls
was massacred. Think you, amidst the shrieks of violated innocence and helpless
infancy, I did not feel in every nerve the cry of a fellow being? They were men
and women, the sufferers, before they were Mahometans, and when they rise
turbanless from the grave, in what except their good or evil actions will they
be the better or worse than we? Two soldiers contended for a girl, whose rich
dress and extreme beauty excited the brutal appetites of these wretches, who,
perhaps good men among their families, were changed by the fury of the moment
into incarnated evils. An old man, with a silver beard, decrepid and bald, he
might be her grandfather, interposed to save her; the battle axe of one of them
clove his skull. I rushed to her defence, but rage made them blind and deaf;
they did not distinguish my Christian garb or heed my words—words were
blunt weapons then, for while war cried “havoc,” and murder gave
fit echo, how could I—

Turn back the tide of ills, relieving wrong
With mild accost of soothing eloquence?

One of the fellows, enraged at my interference, struck me with his bayonet in
the side, and I fell senseless.

“This wound will probably shorten my life, having shattered a frame, weak
of itself. But I am content to die. I have learnt in Greece that one man, more
or less, is of small import, while human bodies remain to fill up the thinned
ranks of the soldiery; and that the identity of an individual may be
overlooked, so that the muster roll contain its full numbers. All this has a
different effect upon Raymond. He is able to contemplate the ideal of war,
while I am sensible only to its realities. He is a soldier, a general. He can
influence the blood-thirsty war-dogs, while I resist their propensities vainly.
The cause is simple. Burke has said that, ‘in all bodies those who would
lead, must also, in a considerable degree, follow.’ —I cannot
follow; for I do not sympathize in their dreams of massacre and glory—to
follow and to lead in such a career, is the natural bent of Raymond’s
mind. He is always successful, and bids fair, at the same time that he acquires
high name and station for himself, to secure liberty, probably extended empire,
to the Greeks.”

Perdita’s mind was not softened by this account. He, she thought, can be
great and happy without me. Would that I also had a career! Would that I could
freight some untried bark with all my hopes, energies, and desires, and launch
it forth into the ocean of life—bound for some attainable point, with
ambition or pleasure at the helm! But adverse winds detain me on shore; like
Ulysses, I sit at the water’s edge and weep. But my nerveless hands can
neither fell the trees, nor smooth the planks. Under the influence of these
melancholy thoughts, she became more than ever in love with sorrow. Yet
Adrian’s presence did some good; he at once broke through the law of
silence observed concerning Raymond. At first she started from the unaccustomed
sound; soon she got used to it and to love it, and she listened with avidity to
the account of his achievements. Clara got rid also of her restraint; Adrian
and she had been old playfellows; and now, as they walked or rode together, he
yielded to her earnest entreaty, and repeated, for the hundredth time, some
tale of her father’s bravery, munificence, or justice.

Each vessel in the mean time brought exhilarating tidings from Greece. The
presence of a friend in its armies and councils made us enter into the details
with enthusiasm; and a short letter now and then from Raymond told us how he
was engrossed by the interests of his adopted country. The Greeks were strongly
attached to their commercial pursuits, and would have been satisfied with their
present acquisitions, had not the Turks roused them by invasion. The patriots
were victorious; a spirit of conquest was instilled; and already they looked on
Constantinople as their own. Raymond rose perpetually in their estimation; but
one man held a superior command to him in their armies. He was conspicuous for
his conduct and choice of position in a battle fought in the plains of Thrace,
on the banks of the Hebrus, which was to decide the fate of Islam. The
Mahometans were defeated, and driven entirely from the country west of this
river. The battle was sanguinary, the loss of the Turks apparently irreparable;
the Greeks, in losing one man, forgot the nameless crowd strewed upon the
bloody field, and they ceased to value themselves on a victory, which cost
them— Raymond.

At the battle of Makri he had led the charge of cavalry, and pursued the
fugitives even to the banks of the Hebrus. His favourite horse was found
grazing by the margin of the tranquil river. It became a question whether he
had fallen among the unrecognized; but no broken ornament or stained trapping
betrayed his fate. It was suspected that the Turks, finding themselves
possessed of so illustrious a captive, resolved to satisfy their cruelty rather
than their avarice, and fearful of the interference of England, had come to the
determination of concealing for ever the cold-blooded murder of the soldier
they most hated and feared in the squadrons of their enemy.

Raymond was not forgotten in England. His abdication of the Protectorate had
caused an unexampled sensation; and, when his magnificent and manly system was
contrasted with the narrow views of succeeding politicians, the period of his
elevation was referred to with sorrow. The perpetual recurrence of his name,
joined to most honourable testimonials, in the Greek gazettes, kept up the
interest he had excited. He seemed the favourite child of fortune, and his
untimely loss eclipsed the world, and shewed forth the remnant of mankind with
diminished lustre. They clung with eagerness to the hope held out that he might
yet be alive. Their minister at Constantinople was urged to make the necessary
perquisitions, and should his existence be ascertained, to demand his release.
It was to be hoped that their efforts would succeed, and that though now a
prisoner, the sport of cruelty and the mark of hate, he would be rescued from
danger and restored to the happiness, power, and honour which he deserved.

The effect of this intelligence upon my sister was striking. She never for a
moment credited the story of his death; she resolved instantly to go to Greece.
Reasoning and persuasion were thrown away upon her; she would endure no
hindrance, no delay. It may be advanced for a truth, that, if argument or
entreaty can turn any one from a desperate purpose, whose motive and end
depends on the strength of the affections only, then it is right so to turn
them, since their docility shews, that neither the motive nor the end were of
sufficient force to bear them through the obstacles attendant on their
undertaking. If, on the contrary, they are proof against expostulation, this
very steadiness is an omen of success; and it becomes the duty of those who
love them, to assist in smoothing the obstructions in their path. Such
sentiments actuated our little circle. Finding Perdita immoveable, we consulted
as to the best means of furthering her purpose. She could not go alone to a
country where she had no friends, where she might arrive only to hear the
dreadful news, which must overwhelm her with grief and remorse. Adrian, whose
health had always been weak, now suffered considerable aggravation of suffering
from the effects of his wound. Idris could not endure to leave him in this
state; nor was it right either to quit or take with us a young family for a
journey of this description. I resolved at length to accompany Perdita. The
separation from my Idris was painful—but necessity reconciled us to it in
some degree: necessity and the hope of saving Raymond, and restoring him again
to happiness and Perdita. No delay was to ensue. Two days after we came to our
determination, we set out for Portsmouth, and embarked. The season was May, the
weather stormless; we were promised a prosperous voyage. Cherishing the most
fervent hopes, embarked on the waste ocean, we saw with delight the receding
shore of Britain, and on the wings of desire outspeeded our well filled sails
towards the South. The light curling waves bore us onward, and old ocean smiled
at the freight of love and hope committed to his charge; it stroked gently its
tempestuous plains, and the path was smoothed for us. Day and night the wind
right aft, gave steady impulse to our keel—nor did rough gale, or
treacherous sand, or destructive rock interpose an obstacle between my sister
and the land which was to restore her to her first beloved,

Her dear heart’s confessor—a heart within that heart.

VOL. II.

CHAPTER I.

During this voyage, when on calm evenings we conversed on deck, watching the
glancing of the waves and the changeful appearances of the sky, I discovered
the total revolution that the disasters of Raymond had wrought in the mind of
my sister. Were they the same waters of love, which, lately cold and cutting as
ice, repelling as that, now loosened from their frozen chains, flowed through
the regions of her soul in gushing and grateful exuberance? She did not believe
that he was dead, but she knew that he was in danger, and the hope of assisting
in his liberation, and the idea of soothing by tenderness the ills that he
might have undergone, elevated and harmonized the late jarring element of her
being. I was not so sanguine as she as to the result of our voyage. She was not
sanguine, but secure; and the expectation of seeing the lover she had banished,
the husband, friend, heart’s companion from whom she had long been
alienated, wrapt her senses in delight, her mind in placidity. It was beginning
life again; it was leaving barren sands for an abode of fertile beauty; it was
a harbour after a tempest, an opiate after sleepless nights, a happy waking
from a terrible dream.

Little Clara accompanied us; the poor child did not well understand what was
going forward. She heard that we were bound for Greece, that she would see her
father, and now, for the first time, she prattled of him to her mother.

On landing at Athens we found difficulties encrease upon us: nor could the
storied earth or balmy atmosphere inspire us with enthusiasm or pleasure, while
the fate of Raymond was in jeopardy. No man had ever excited so strong an
interest in the public mind; this was apparent even among the phlegmatic
English, from whom he had long been absent. The Athenians had expected their
hero to return in triumph; the women had taught their children to lisp his name
joined to thanksgiving; his manly beauty, his courage, his devotion to their
cause, made him appear in their eyes almost as one of the ancient deities of
the soil descended from their native Olympus to defend them. When they spoke of
his probable death and certain captivity, tears streamed from their eyes; even
as the women of Syria sorrowed for Adonis, did the wives and mothers of Greece
lament our English Raymond—Athens was a city of mourning.

All these shews of despair struck Perdita with affright. With that sanguine but
confused expectation, which desire engendered while she was at a distance from
reality, she had formed an image in her mind of instantaneous change, when she
should set her foot on Grecian shores. She fancied that Raymond would already
be free, and that her tender attentions would come to entirely obliterate even
the memory of his mischance. But his fate was still uncertain; she began to
fear the worst, and to feel that her soul’s hope was cast on a chance
that might prove a blank. The wife and lovely child of Lord Raymond became
objects of intense interest in Athens. The gates of their abode were besieged,
audible prayers were breathed for his restoration; all these circumstances
added to the dismay and fears of Perdita.

My exertions were unremitted: after a time I left Athens, and joined the army
stationed at Kishan in Thrace. Bribery, threats, and intrigue, soon discovered
the secret that Raymond was alive, a prisoner, suffering the most rigorous
confinement and wanton cruelties. We put in movement every impulse of policy
and money to redeem him from their hands.

The impatience of my sister’s disposition now returned on her, awakened
by repentance, sharpened by remorse. The very beauty of the Grecian climate,
during the season of spring, added torture to her sensations. The unexampled
loveliness of the flower-clad earth—the genial sunshine and grateful
shade—the melody of the birds—the majesty of the woods— the
splendour of the marble ruins—the clear effulgence of the stars by
night—the combination of all that was exciting and voluptuous in this
transcending land, by inspiring a quicker spirit of life and an added
sensitiveness to every articulation of her frame, only gave edge to the
poignancy of her grief. Each long hour was counted, and “He
suffers” was the burthen of all her thoughts. She abstained from
food; she lay on the bare earth, and, by such mimickry of his enforced
torments, endeavoured to hold communion with his distant pain. I remembered in
one of her harshest moments a quotation of mine had roused her to anger and
disdain. “Perdita,” I had said, “some day you will discover
that you have done wrong in again casting Raymond on the thorns of life. When
disappointment has sullied his beauty, when a soldier’s hardships have
bent his manly form, and loneliness made even triumph bitter to him, then you
will repent; and regret for the irreparable change

“will move
        In hearts all rocky now, the late remorse of
love.”^[1]

The stinging “remorse of love” now pierced her heart. She accused
herself of his journey to Greece—his dangers—his imprisonment. She
pictured to herself the anguish of his solitude; she remembered with what eager
delight he had in former days made her the partner of his joyful hopes—
with what grateful affection he received her sympathy in his cares. She called
to mind how often he had declared that solitude was to him the greatest of all
evils, and how death itself was to him more full of fear and pain when he
pictured to himself a lonely grave. “My best girl,” he had said,
“relieves me from these phantasies. United to her, cherished in her dear
heart, never again shall I know the misery of finding myself alone. Even if I
die before you, my Perdita, treasure up my ashes till yours may mingle with
mine. It is a foolish sentiment for one who is not a materialist, yet,
methinks, even in that dark cell, I may feel that my inanimate dust mingles
with yours, and thus have a companion in decay.” In her resentful mood,
these expressions had been remembered with acrimony and disdain; they visited
her in her softened hour, taking sleep from her eyes, all hope of rest from her
uneasy mind.

Two months passed thus, when at last we obtained a promise of Raymond’s
release. Confinement and hardship had undermined his health; the Turks feared
an accomplishment of the threats of the English government, if he died under
their hands; they looked upon his recovery as impossible; they delivered him up
as a dying man, willingly making over to us the rites of burial.

He came by sea from Constantinople to Athens. The wind, favourable to him, blew
so strongly in shore, that we were unable, as we had at first intended, to meet
him on his watery road. The watchtower of Athens was besieged by inquirers,
each sail eagerly looked out for; till on the first of May the gallant frigate
bore in sight, freighted with treasure more invaluable than the wealth which,
piloted from Mexico, the vexed Pacific swallowed, or that was conveyed over its
tranquil bosom to enrich the crown of Spain. At early dawn the vessel was
discovered bearing in shore; it was conjectured that it would cast anchor about
five miles from land. The news spread through Athens, and the whole city poured
out at the gate of the Piraeus, down the roads, through the vineyards, the
olive woods and plantations of fig-trees, towards the harbour. The noisy joy of
the populace, the gaudy colours of their dress, the tumult of carriages and
horses, the march of soldiers intermixed, the waving of banners and sound of
martial music added to the high excitement of the scene; while round us reposed
in solemn majesty the relics of antient time. To our right the Acropolis rose
high, spectatress of a thousand changes, of ancient glory, Turkish slavery, and
the restoration of dear-bought liberty; tombs and cenotaphs were strewed thick
around, adorned by ever renewing vegetation; the mighty dead hovered over their
monuments, and beheld in our enthusiasm and congregated numbers a renewal of
the scenes in which they had been the actors. Perdita and Clara rode in a close
carriage; I attended them on horseback. At length we arrived at the harbour; it
was agitated by the outward swell of the sea; the beach, as far could be
discerned, was covered by a moving multitude, which, urged by those behind
toward the sea, again rushed back as the heavy waves with sullen roar burst
close to them. I applied my glass, and could discern that the frigate had
already cast anchor, fearful of the danger of approaching nearer to a lee
shore: a boat was lowered; with a pang I saw that Raymond was unable to descend
the vessel’s side; he was let down in a chair, and lay wrapt in cloaks at
the bottom of the boat.

I dismounted, and called to some sailors who were rowing about the harbour to
pull up, and take me into their skiff; Perdita at the same moment alighted from
her carriage—she seized my arm—“Take me with you,” she
cried; she was trembling and pale; Clara clung to her—“You must
not,” I said, “the sea is rough—he will soon be here—do
you not see his boat?” The little bark to which I had beckoned had now
pulled up; before I could stop her, Perdita, assisted by the sailors was in
it—Clara followed her mother—a loud shout echoed from the crowd as
we pulled out of the inner harbour; while my sister at the prow, had caught
hold of one of the men who was using a glass, asking a thousand questions,
careless of the spray that broke over her, deaf, sightless to all, except the
little speck that, just visible on the top of the waves, evidently neared. We
approached with all the speed six rowers could give; the orderly and
picturesque dress of the soldiers on the beach, the sounds of exulting music,
the stirring breeze and waving flags, the unchecked exclamations of the eager
crowd, whose dark looks and foreign garb were purely eastern; the sight of
temple-crowned rock, the white marble of the buildings glittering in the sun,
and standing in bright relief against the dark ridge of lofty mountains beyond;
the near roar of the sea, the splash of oars, and dash of spray, all steeped my
soul in a delirium, unfelt, unimagined in the common course of common life.
Trembling, I was unable to continue to look through the glass with which I had
watched the motion of the crew, when the frigate’s boat had first been
launched. We rapidly drew near, so that at length the number and forms of those
within could be discerned; its dark sides grew big, and the splash of its oars
became audible: I could distinguish the languid form of my friend, as he half
raised himself at our approach.

Perdita’s questions had ceased; she leaned on my arm, panting with
emotions too acute for tears—our men pulled alongside the other boat. As
a last effort, my sister mustered her strength, her firmness; she stepped from
one boat to the other, and then with a shriek she sprang towards Raymond, knelt
at his side, and glueing her lips to the hand she seized, her face shrouded by
her long hair, gave herself up to tears.

Raymond had somewhat raised himself at our approach, but it was with difficulty
that he exerted himself even thus much. With sunken cheek and hollow eyes, pale
and gaunt, how could I recognize the beloved of Perdita? I continued awe-struck
and mute—he looked smilingly on the poor girl; the smile was his. A day
of sun-shine falling on a dark valley, displays its before hidden
characteristics; and now this smile, the same with which he first spoke love to
Perdita, with which he had welcomed the protectorate, playing on his altered
countenance, made me in my heart’s core feel that this was Raymond.

He stretched out to me his other hand; I discerned the trace of manacles on his
bared wrist. I heard my sister’s sobs, and thought, happy are women who
can weep, and in a passionate caress disburthen the oppression of their
feelings; shame and habitual restraint hold back a man. I would have given
worlds to have acted as in days of boyhood, have strained him to my breast,
pressed his hand to my lips, and wept over him; my swelling heart choked me;
the natural current would not be checked; the big rebellious tears gathered in
my eyes; I turned aside, and they dropped in the sea—they came fast and
faster;—yet I could hardly be ashamed, for I saw that the rough sailors
were not unmoved, and Raymond’s eyes alone were dry from among our crew.
He lay in that blessed calm which convalescence always induces, enjoying in
secure tranquillity his liberty and re-union with her whom he adored. Perdita
at length subdued her burst of passion, and rose, —she looked round for
Clara; the child frightened, not recognizing her father, and neglected by us,
had crept to the other end of the boat; she came at her mother’s call.
Perdita presented her to Raymond; her first words were: “Beloved, embrace
our child!”

“Come hither, sweet one,” said her father, “do you not know
me?” she knew his voice, and cast herself in his arms with half bashful
but uncontrollable emotion.

Perceiving the weakness of Raymond, I was afraid of ill consequences from the
pressure of the crowd on his landing. But they were awed as I had been, at the
change of his appearance. The music died away, the shouts abruptly ended; the
soldiers had cleared a space in which a carriage was drawn up. He was placed in
it; Perdita and Clara entered with him, and his escort closed round it; a
hollow murmur, akin to the roaring of the near waves, went through the
multitude; they fell back as the carriage advanced, and fearful of injuring him
they had come to welcome, by loud testimonies of joy, they satisfied themselves
with bending in a low salaam as the carriage passed; it went slowly along the
road of the Piraeus; passed by antique temple and heroic tomb, beneath the
craggy rock of the citadel. The sound of the waves was left behind; that of the
multitude continued at intervals, supressed and hoarse; and though, in the
city, the houses, churches, and public buildings were decorated with tapestry
and banners—though the soldiery lined the streets, and the inhabitants in
thousands were assembled to give him hail, the same solemn silence prevailed,
the soldiery presented arms, the banners vailed, many a white hand waved a
streamer, and vainly sought to discern the hero in the vehicle, which, closed
and encompassed by the city guards, drew him to the palace allotted for his
abode.

Raymond was weak and exhausted, yet the interest he perceived to be excited on
his account, filled him with proud pleasure. He was nearly killed with
kindness. It is true, the populace retained themselves; but there arose a
perpetual hum and bustle from the throng round the palace, which added to the
noise of fireworks, the frequent explosion of arms, the tramp to and fro of
horsemen and carriages, to which effervescence he was the focus, retarded his
recovery. So we retired awhile to Eleusis, and here rest and tender care added
each day to the strength of our invalid. The zealous attention of Perdita
claimed the first rank in the causes which induced his rapid recovery; but the
second was surely the delight he felt in the affection and good will of the
Greeks. We are said to love much those whom we greatly benefit. Raymond had
fought and conquered for the Athenians; he had suffered, on their account,
peril, imprisonment, and hardship; their gratitude affected him deeply, and he
inly vowed to unite his fate for ever to that of a people so enthusiastically
devoted to him.

Social feeling and sympathy constituted a marked feature in my disposition. In
early youth, the living drama acted around me, drew me heart and soul into its
vortex. I was now conscious of a change. I loved, I hoped, I enjoyed; but there
was something besides this. I was inquisitive as to the internal principles of
action of those around me: anxious to read their thoughts justly, and for ever
occupied in divining their inmost mind. All events, at the same time that they
deeply interested me, arranged themselves in pictures before me. I gave the
right place to every personage in the groupe, the just balance to every
sentiment. This undercurrent of thought, often soothed me amidst distress, and
even agony. It gave ideality to that, from which, taken in naked truth, the
soul would have revolted: it bestowed pictorial colours on misery and disease,
and not unfrequently relieved me from despair in deplorable changes. This
faculty, or instinct, was now rouzed. I watched the re-awakened devotion of my
sister; Clara’s timid, but concentrated admiration of her father, and
Raymond’s appetite for renown, and sensitiveness to the demonstrations of
affection of the Athenians. Attentively perusing this animated volume, I was
the less surprised at the tale I read on the new-turned page.

The Turkish army were at this time besieging Rodosto; and the Greeks, hastening
their preparations, and sending each day reinforcements, were on the eve of
forcing the enemy to battle. Each people looked on the coming struggle as that
which would be to a great degree decisive; as, in case of victory, the next
step would be the siege of Constantinople by the Greeks. Raymond, being
somewhat recovered, prepared to re-assume his command in the army.

Perdita did not oppose herself to his determination. She only stipulated to be
permitted to accompany him. She had set down no rule of conduct for herself;
but for her life she could not have opposed his slightest wish, or do other
than acquiesce cheerfully in all his projects. One word, in truth, had alarmed
her more than battles or sieges, during which she trusted Raymond’s high
command would exempt him from danger. That word, as yet it was not more to her,
was PLAGUE. This enemy to the human race had begun early in June to raise its
serpent-head on the shores of the Nile; parts of Asia, not usually subject to
this evil, were infected. It was in Constantinople; but as each year that city
experienced a like visitation, small attention was paid to those accounts which
declared more people to have died there already, than usually made up the
accustomed prey of the whole of the hotter months. However it might be, neither
plague nor war could prevent Perdita from following her lord, or induce her to
utter one objection to the plans which he proposed. To be near him, to be loved
by him, to feel him again her own, was the limit of her desires. The object of
her life was to do him pleasure: it had been so before, but with a difference.
In past times, without thought or foresight she had made him happy, being so
herself, and in any question of choice, consulted her own wishes, as being one
with his. Now she sedulously put herself out of the question, sacrificing even
her anxiety for his health and welfare to her resolve not to oppose any of his
desires. Love of the Greek people, appetite for glory, and hatred of the
barbarian government under which he had suffered even to the approach of death,
stimulated him. He wished to repay the kindness of the Athenians, to keep alive
the splendid associations connected with his name, and to eradicate from Europe
a power which, while every other nation advanced in civilization, stood still,
a monument of antique barbarism. Having effected the reunion of Raymond and
Perdita, I was eager to return to England; but his earnest request, added to
awakening curiosity, and an indefinable anxiety to behold the catastrophe, now
apparently at hand, in the long drawn history of Grecian and Turkish warfare,
induced me to consent to prolong until the autumn, the period of my residence
in Greece.

As soon as the health of Raymond was sufficiently re-established, he prepared
to join the Grecian camp, near Kishan, a town of some importance, situated to
the east of the Hebrus; in which Perdita and Clara were to remain until the
event of the expected battle. We quitted Athens on the 2nd of June. Raymond had
recovered from the gaunt and pallid looks of fever. If I no longer saw the
fresh glow of youth on his matured countenance, if care had besieged his brow,

“And dug deep trenches in his beauty’s
field,”^[2]

if his hair, slightly mingled with grey, and his look, considerate even in its
eagerness, gave signs of added years and past sufferings, yet there was
something irresistibly affecting in the sight of one, lately snatched from the
grave, renewing his career, untamed by sickness or disaster. The Athenians saw
in him, not as heretofore, the heroic boy or desperate man, who was ready to
die for them; but the prudent commander, who for their sakes was careful of his
life, and could make his own warrior-propensities second to the scheme of
conduct policy might point out.

All Athens accompanied us for several miles. When he had landed a month ago,
the noisy populace had been hushed by sorrow and fear; but this was a festival
day to all. The air resounded with their shouts; their picturesque costume, and
the gay colours of which it was composed, flaunted in the sunshine; their eager
gestures and rapid utterance accorded with their wild appearance. Raymond was
the theme of every tongue, the hope of each wife, mother or betrothed bride,
whose husband, child, or lover, making a part of the Greek army, were to be
conducted to victory by him.

Notwithstanding the hazardous object of our journey, it was full of romantic
interest, as we passed through the vallies, and over the hills, of this divine
country. Raymond was inspirited by the intense sensations of recovered health;
he felt that in being general of the Athenians, he filled a post worthy of his
ambition; and, in his hope of the conquest of Constantinople, he counted on an
event which would be as a landmark in the waste of ages, an exploit unequalled
in the annals of man; when a city of grand historic association, the beauty of
whose site was the wonder of the world, which for many hundred years had been
the strong hold of the Moslems, should be rescued from slavery and barbarism,
and restored to a people illustrious for genius, civilization, and a spirit of
liberty. Perdita rested on his restored society, on his love, his hopes and
fame, even as a Sybarite on a luxurious couch; every thought was transport,
each emotion bathed as it were in a congenial and balmy element.

We arrived at Kishan on the 7th of July. The weather during our journey had
been serene. Each day, before dawn, we left our night’s encampment, and
watched the shadows as they retreated from hill and valley, and the golden
splendour of the sun’s approach. The accompanying soldiers received, with
national vivacity, enthusiastic pleasure from the sight of beautiful nature.
The uprising of the star of day was hailed by triumphant strains, while the
birds, heard by snatches, filled up the intervals of the music. At noon, we
pitched our tents in some shady valley, or embowering wood among the mountains,
while a stream prattling over pebbles induced grateful sleep. Our evening
march, more calm, was yet more delightful than the morning restlessness of
spirit. If the band played, involuntarily they chose airs of moderated passion;
the farewell of love, or lament at absence, was followed and closed by some
solemn hymn, which harmonized with the tranquil loveliness of evening, and
elevated the soul to grand and religious thought. Often all sounds were
suspended, that we might listen to the nightingale, while the fire-flies danced
in bright measure, and the soft cooing of the aziolo spoke of fair weather to
the travellers. Did we pass a valley? Soft shades encompassed us, and rocks
tinged with beauteous hues. If we traversed a mountain, Greece, a living map,
was spread beneath, her renowned pinnacles cleaving the ether; her rivers
threading in silver line the fertile land. Afraid almost to breathe, we English
travellers surveyed with extasy this splendid landscape, so different from the
sober hues and melancholy graces of our native scenery. When we quitted
Macedonia, the fertile but low plains of Thrace afforded fewer beauties; yet
our journey continued to be interesting. An advanced guard gave information of
our approach, and the country people were quickly in motion to do honour to
Lord Raymond. The villages were decorated by triumphal arches of greenery by
day, and lamps by night; tapestry waved from the windows, the ground was
strewed with flowers, and the name of Raymond, joined to that of Greece, was
echoed in the Evive of the peasant crowd.

When we arrived at Kishan, we learnt, that on hearing of the advance of Lord
Raymond and his detachment, the Turkish army had retreated from Rodosto; but
meeting with a reinforcement, they had re-trod their steps. In the meantime,
Argyropylo, the Greek commander-in-chief, had advanced, so as to be between the
Turks and Rodosto; a battle, it was said, was inevitable. Perdita and her child
were to remain at Kishan. Raymond asked me, if I would not continue with them.
“Now by the fells of Cumberland,” I cried, “by all of the
vagabond and poacher that appertains to me, I will stand at your side, draw my
sword in the Greek cause, and be hailed as a victor along with you!”

All the plain, from Kishan to Rodosto, a distance of sixteen leagues, was alive
with troops, or with the camp-followers, all in motion at the approach of a
battle. The small garrisons were drawn from the various towns and fortresses,
and went to swell the main army. We met baggage waggons, and many females of
high and low rank returning to Fairy or Kishan, there to wait the issue of the
expected day. When we arrived at Rodosto, we found that the field had been
taken, and the scheme of the battle arranged. The sound of firing, early on the
following morning, informed us that advanced posts of the armies were engaged.
Regiment after regiment advanced, their colours flying and bands playing. They
planted the cannon on the tumuli, sole elevations in this level country, and
formed themselves into column and hollow square; while the pioneers threw up
small mounds for their protection.

These then were the preparations for a battle, nay, the battle itself; far
different from any thing the imagination had pictured. We read of centre and
wing in Greek and Roman history; we fancy a spot, plain as a table, and
soldiers small as chessmen; and drawn forth, so that the most ignorant of the
game can discover science and order in the disposition of the forces. When I
came to the reality, and saw regiments file off to the left far out of sight,
fields intervening between the battalions, but a few troops sufficiently near
me to observe their motions, I gave up all idea of understanding, even of
seeing a battle, but attaching myself to Raymond attended with intense interest
to his actions. He shewed himself collected, gallant and imperial; his commands
were prompt, his intuition of the events of the day to me miraculous. In the
mean time the cannon roared; the music lifted up its enlivening voice at
intervals; and we on the highest of the mounds I mentioned, too far off to
observe the fallen sheaves which death gathered into his storehouse, beheld the
regiments, now lost in smoke, now banners and staves peering above the cloud,
while shout and clamour drowned every sound.

Early in the day, Argyropylo was wounded dangerously, and Raymond assumed the
command of the whole army. He made few remarks, till, on observing through his
glass the sequel of an order he had given, his face, clouded for awhile with
doubt, became radiant. “The day is ours,” he cried, “the
Turks fly from the bayonet.” And then swiftly he dispatched his
aides-de-camp to command the horse to fall on the routed enemy. The defeat
became total; the cannon ceased to roar; the infantry rallied, and horse
pursued the flying Turks along the dreary plain; the staff of Raymond was
dispersed in various directions, to make observations, and bear commands. Even
I was dispatched to a distant part of the field.

The ground on which the battle was fought, was a level plain—so level,
that from the tumuli you saw the waving line of mountains on the wide-stretched
horizon; yet the intervening space was unvaried by the least irregularity, save
such undulations as resembled the waves of the sea. The whole of this part of
Thrace had been so long a scene of contest, that it had remained uncultivated,
and presented a dreary, barren appearance. The order I had received, was to
make an observation of the direction which a detachment of the enemy might have
taken, from a northern tumulus; the whole Turkish army, followed by the Greek,
had poured eastward; none but the dead remained in the direction of my side.
From the top of the mound, I looked far round—all was silent and
deserted.

The last beams of the nearly sunken sun shot up from behind the far summit of
Mount Athos; the sea of Marmora still glittered beneath its rays, while the
Asiatic coast beyond was half hid in a haze of low cloud. Many a casque, and
bayonet, and sword, fallen from unnerved arms, reflected the departing ray;
they lay scattered far and near. From the east, a band of ravens, old
inhabitants of the Turkish cemeteries, came sailing along towards their
harvest; the sun disappeared. This hour, melancholy yet sweet, has always
seemed to me the time when we are most naturally led to commune with higher
powers; our mortal sternness departs, and gentle complacency invests the soul.
But now, in the midst of the dying and the dead, how could a thought of heaven
or a sensation of tranquillity possess one of the murderers? During the busy
day, my mind had yielded itself a willing slave to the state of things
presented to it by its fellow-beings; historical association, hatred of the
foe, and military enthusiasm had held dominion over me. Now, I looked on the
evening star, as softly and calmly it hung pendulous in the orange hues of
sunset. I turned to the corse-strewn earth; and felt ashamed of my species. So
perhaps were the placid skies; for they quickly veiled themselves in mist, and
in this change assisted the swift disappearance of twilight usual in the south;
heavy masses of cloud floated up from the south east, and red and turbid
lightning shot from their dark edges; the rushing wind disturbed the garments
of the dead, and was chilled as it passed over their icy forms. Darkness
gathered round; the objects about me became indistinct, I descended from my
station, and with difficulty guided my horse, so as to avoid the slain.

Suddenly I heard a piercing shriek; a form seemed to rise from the earth; it
flew swiftly towards me, sinking to the ground again as it drew near. All this
passed so suddenly, that I with difficulty reined in my horse, so that it
should not trample on the prostrate being. The dress of this person was that of
a soldier, but the bared neck and arms, and the continued shrieks discovered a
female thus disguised. I dismounted to her aid, while she, with heavy groans,
and her hand placed on her side, resisted my attempt to lead her on. In the
hurry of the moment I forgot that I was in Greece, and in my native accents
endeavoured to soothe the sufferer. With wild and terrific exclamations did the
lost, dying Evadne (for it was she) recognize the language of her lover; pain
and fever from her wound had deranged her intellects, while her piteous cries
and feeble efforts to escape, penetrated me with compassion. In wild delirium
she called upon the name of Raymond; she exclaimed that I was keeping him from
her, while the Turks with fearful instruments of torture were about to take his
life. Then again she sadly lamented her hard fate; that a woman, with a
woman’s heart and sensibility, should be driven by hopeless love and
vacant hopes to take up the trade of arms, and suffer beyond the endurance of
man privation, labour, and pain—the while her dry, hot hand pressed mine,
and her brow and lips burned with consuming fire.

As her strength grew less, I lifted her from the ground; her emaciated form
hung over my arm, her sunken cheek rested on my breast; in a sepulchral voice
she murmured:—“This is the end of love!—Yet not the
end!”— and frenzy lent her strength as she cast her arm up to
heaven: “there is the end! there we meet again. Many living deaths have I
borne for thee, O Raymond, and now I expire, thy victim!—By my death I
purchase thee— lo! the instruments of war, fire, the plague are my
servitors. I dared, I conquered them all, till now! I have sold myself to
death, with the sole condition that thou shouldst follow me—Fire, and
war, and plague, unite for thy destruction—O my Raymond, there is no
safety for thee!”

With an heavy heart I listened to the changes of her delirium; I made her a bed
of cloaks; her violence decreased and a clammy dew stood on her brow as the
paleness of death succeeded to the crimson of fever, I placed her on the
cloaks. She continued to rave of her speedy meeting with her beloved in the
grave, of his death nigh at hand; sometimes she solemnly declared that he was
summoned; sometimes she bewailed his hard destiny. Her voice grew feebler, her
speech interrupted; a few convulsive movements, and her muscles relaxed, the
limbs fell, no more to be sustained, one deep sigh, and life was gone.

I bore her from the near neighbourhood of the dead; wrapt in cloaks, I placed
her beneath a tree. Once more I looked on her altered face; the last time I saw
her she was eighteen; beautiful as poet’s vision, splendid as a Sultana
of the East—Twelve years had past; twelve years of change, sorrow and
hardship; her brilliant complexion had become worn and dark, her limbs had lost
the roundness of youth and womanhood; her eyes had sunk deep,

        Crushed and o’erworn,
The hours had drained her blood, and filled her brow
With lines and wrinkles.

With shuddering horror I veiled this monument of human passion and human
misery; I heaped over her all of flags and heavy accoutrements I could find, to
guard her from birds and beasts of prey, until I could bestow on her a fitting
grave. Sadly and slowly I stemmed my course from among the heaps of slain, and,
guided by the twinkling lights of the town, at length reached Rodosto.

[1]
Lord Byron’s Fourth Canto of Childe Harolde.

[2]
Shakspeare’s Sonnets.

CHAPTER II.

On my arrival, I found that an order had already gone forth for the army to
proceed immediately towards Constantinople; and the troops which had suffered
least in the battle were already on their way. The town was full of tumult. The
wound, and consequent inability of Argyropylo, caused Raymond to be the first
in command. He rode through the town, visiting the wounded, and giving such
orders as were necessary for the siege he meditated. Early in the morning the
whole army was in motion. In the hurry I could hardly find an opportunity to
bestow the last offices on Evadne. Attended only by my servant, I dug a deep
grave for her at the foot of the tree, and without disturbing her warrior
shroud, I placed her in it, heaping stones upon the grave. The dazzling sun and
glare of daylight, deprived the scene of solemnity; from Evadne’s low
tomb, I joined Raymond and his staff, now on their way to the Golden City.

Constantinople was invested, trenches dug, and advances made. The whole Greek
fleet blockaded it by sea; on land from the river Kyat Kbanah, near the Sweet
Waters, to the Tower of Marmora, on the shores of the Propontis, along the
whole line of the ancient walls, the trenches of the siege were drawn. We
already possessed Pera; the Golden Horn itself, the city, bastioned by the sea,
and the ivy-mantled walls of the Greek emperors was all of Europe that the
Mahometans could call theirs. Our army looked on her as certain prey. They
counted the garrison; it was impossible that it should be relieved; each sally
was a victory; for, even when the Turks were triumphant, the loss of men they
sustained was an irreparable injury. I rode one morning with Raymond to the
lofty mound, not far from the Top Kapou, (Cannon-gate), on which Mahmoud
planted his standard, and first saw the city. Still the same lofty domes and
minarets towered above the verdurous walls, where Constantine had died, and the
Turk had entered the city. The plain around was interspersed with cemeteries,
Turk, Greek, and Armenian, with their growth of cypress trees; and other woods
of more cheerful aspect, diversified the scene. Among them the Greek army was
encamped, and their squadrons moved to and fro—now in regular march, now
in swift career.

Raymond’s eyes were fixed on the city. “I have counted the hours of
her life,” said he; “one month, and she falls. Remain with me till
then; wait till you see the cross on St. Sophia; and then return to your
peaceful glades.”

“You then,” I asked, “still remain in Greece?”

“Assuredly,” replied Raymond. “Yet Lionel, when I say this,
believe me I look back with regret to our tranquil life at Windsor. I am but
half a soldier; I love the renown, but not the trade of war. Before the battle
of Rodosto I was full of hope and spirit; to conquer there, and afterwards to
take Constantinople, was the hope, the bourne, the fulfilment of my ambition.
This enthusiasm is now spent, I know not why; I seem to myself to be entering a
darksome gulph; the ardent spirit of the army is irksome to me, the rapture of
triumph null.”

He paused, and was lost in thought. His serious mien recalled, by some
association, the half-forgotten Evadne to my mind, and I seized this
opportunity to make enquiries from him concerning her strange lot. I asked him,
if he had ever seen among the troops any one resembling her; if since he had
returned to Greece he had heard of her?

He started at her name,—he looked uneasily on me. “Even so,”
he cried, “I knew you would speak of her. Long, long I had forgotten her.
Since our encampment here, she daily, hourly visits my thoughts. When I am
addressed, her name is the sound I expect: in every communication, I imagine
that she will form a part. At length you have broken the spell; tell me what
you know of her.”

I related my meeting with her; the story of her death was told and re-told.
With painful earnestness he questioned me concerning her prophecies with regard
to him. I treated them as the ravings of a maniac. “No, no,” he
said, “do not deceive yourself,—me you cannot. She has said nothing
but what I knew before—though this is confirmation. Fire, the sword, and
plague! They may all be found in yonder city; on my head alone may they
fall!”

From this day Raymond’s melancholy increased. He secluded himself as much
as the duties of his station permitted. When in company, sadness would in spite
of every effort steal over his features, and he sat absent and mute among the
busy crowd that thronged about him. Perdita rejoined him, and before her he
forced himself to appear cheerful, for she, even as a mirror, changed as he
changed, and if he were silent and anxious, she solicitously inquired
concerning, and endeavoured to remove the cause of his seriousness. She resided
at the palace of Sweet Waters, a summer seraglio of the Sultan; the beauty of
the surrounding scenery, undefiled by war, and the freshness of the river, made
this spot doubly delightful. Raymond felt no relief, received no pleasure from
any show of heaven or earth. He often left Perdita, to wander in the grounds
alone; or in a light shallop he floated idly on the pure waters, musing deeply.
Sometimes I joined him; at such times his countenance was invariably solemn,
his air dejected. He seemed relieved on seeing me, and would talk with some
degree of interest on the affairs of the day. There was evidently something
behind all this; yet, when he appeared about to speak of that which was nearest
his heart, he would abruptly turn away, and with a sigh endeavour to deliver
the painful idea to the winds.

It had often occurred, that, when, as I said, Raymond quitted Perdita’s
drawing-room, Clara came up to me, and gently drawing me aside, said,
“Papa is gone; shall we go to him? I dare say he will be glad to see
you.” And, as accident permitted, I complied with or refused her request.
One evening a numerous assembly of Greek chieftains were gathered together in
the palace. The intriguing Palli, the accomplished Karazza, the warlike
Ypsilanti, were among the principal. They talked of the events of the day; the
skirmish at noon; the diminished numbers of the Infidels; their defeat and
flight: they contemplated, after a short interval of time, the capture of the
Golden City. They endeavoured to picture forth what would then happen, and
spoke in lofty terms of the prosperity of Greece, when Constantinople should
become its capital. The conversation then reverted to Asiatic intelligence, and
the ravages the plague made in its chief cities; conjectures were hazarded as
to the progress that disease might have made in the besieged city.

Raymond had joined in the former part of the discussion. In lively terms he
demonstrated the extremities to which Constantinople was reduced; the wasted
and haggard, though ferocious appearance of the troops; famine and pestilence
was at work for them, he observed, and the infidels would soon be obliged to
take refuge in their only hope—submission. Suddenly in the midst of his
harangue he broke off, as if stung by some painful thought; he rose uneasily,
and I perceived him at length quit the hall, and through the long corridor seek
the open air. He did not return; and soon Clara crept round to me, making the
accustomed invitation. I consented to her request, and taking her little hand,
followed Raymond. We found him just about to embark in his boat, and he readily
agreed to receive us as companions. After the heats of the day, the cooling
land-breeze ruffled the river, and filled our little sail. The city looked dark
to the south, while numerous lights along the near shores, and the beautiful
aspect of the banks reposing in placid night, the waters keenly reflecting the
heavenly lights, gave to this beauteous river a dower of loveliness that might
have characterized a retreat in Paradise. Our single boatman attended to the
sail; Raymond steered; Clara sat at his feet, clasping his knees with her arms,
and laying her head on them. Raymond began the conversation somewhat abruptly.

“This, my friend, is probably the last time we shall have an opportunity
of conversing freely; my plans are now in full operation, and my time will
become more and more occupied. Besides, I wish at once to tell you my wishes
and expectations, and then never again to revert to so painful a subject.
First, I must thank you, Lionel, for having remained here at my request. Vanity
first prompted me to ask you: vanity, I call it; yet even in this I see the
hand of fate—your presence will soon be necessary; you will become the
last resource of Perdita, her protector and consoler. You will take her back to
Windsor.”—

“Not without you,” I said. “You do not mean to separate
again?”

“Do not deceive yourself,” replied Raymond, “the separation
at hand is one over which I have no control; most near at hand is it; the days
are already counted. May I trust you? For many days I have longed to disclose
the mysterious presentiments that weigh on me, although I fear that you will
ridicule them. Yet do not, my gentle friend; for, all childish and unwise as
they are, they have become a part of me, and I dare not expect to shake them
off.

“Yet how can I expect you to sympathize with me? You are of this world; I
am not. You hold forth your hand; it is even as a part of yourself; and you do
not yet divide the feeling of identity from the mortal form that shapes forth
Lionel. How then can you understand me? Earth is to me a tomb, the firmament a
vault, shrouding mere corruption. Time is no more, for I have stepped within
the threshold of eternity; each man I meet appears a corse, which will soon be
deserted of its animating spark, on the eve of decay and corruption.

Cada piedra un piramide levanta,
y cada flor costruye un monumento,
cada edificio es un sepulcro altivo,
cada soldado un esqueleto vivo.”^[3]

His accent was mournful,—he sighed deeply. “A few months
ago,” he continued, “I was thought to be dying; but life was strong
within me. My affections were human; hope and love were the day-stars of my
life. Now— they dream that the brows of the conqueror of the infidel
faith are about to be encircled by triumphant laurel; they talk of honourable
reward, of title, power, and wealth—all I ask of Greece is a grave. Let
them raise a mound above my lifeless body, which may stand even when the dome
of St. Sophia has fallen.

“Wherefore do I feel thus? At Rodosto I was full of hope; but when first
I saw Constantinople, that feeling, with every other joyful one, departed. The
last words of Evadne were the seal upon the warrant of my death. Yet I do not
pretend to account for my mood by any particular event. All I can say is, that
it is so. The plague I am told is in Constantinople, perhaps I have imbibed its
effluvia—perhaps disease is the real cause of my prognostications. It
matters little why or wherefore I am affected, no power can avert the stroke,
and the shadow of Fate’s uplifted hand already darkens me.

“To you, Lionel, I entrust your sister and her child. Never mention to
her the fatal name of Evadne. She would doubly sorrow over the strange link
that enchains me to her, making my spirit obey her dying voice, following her,
as it is about to do, to the unknown country.”

I listened to him with wonder; but that his sad demeanour and solemn utterance
assured me of the truth and intensity of his feelings, I should with light
derision have attempted to dissipate his fears. Whatever I was about to reply,
was interrupted by the powerful emotions of Clara. Raymond had spoken,
thoughtless of her presence, and she, poor child, heard with terror and faith
the prophecy of his death. Her father was moved by her violent grief; he took
her in his arms and soothed her, but his very soothings were solemn and
fearful. “Weep not, sweet child,” said he, “the coming death
of one you have hardly known. I may die, but in death I can never forget or
desert my own Clara. In after sorrow or joy, believe that you father’s
spirit is near, to save or sympathize with you. Be proud of me, and cherish
your infant remembrance of me. Thus, sweetest, I shall not appear to die. One
thing you must promise,—not to speak to any one but your uncle, of the
conversation you have just overheard. When I am gone, you will console your
mother, and tell her that death was only bitter because it divided me from her;
that my last thoughts will be spent on her. But while I live, promise not to
betray me; promise, my child.”

With faltering accents Clara promised, while she still clung to her father in a
transport of sorrow. Soon we returned to shore, and I endeavoured to obviate
the impression made on the child’s mind, by treating Raymond’s
fears lightly. We heard no more of them; for, as he had said, the siege, now
drawing to a conclusion, became paramount in interest, engaging all his time
and attention.

The empire of the Mahometans in Europe was at its close. The Greek fleet
blockading every port of Stamboul, prevented the arrival of succour from Asia;
all egress on the side towards land had become impracticable, except to such
desperate sallies, as reduced the numbers of the enemy without making any
impression on our lines. The garrison was now so much diminished, that it was
evident that the city could easily have been carried by storm; but both
humanity and policy dictated a slower mode of proceeding. We could hardly doubt
that, if pursued to the utmost, its palaces, its temples and store of wealth
would be destroyed in the fury of contending triumph and defeat. Already the
defenceless citizens had suffered through the barbarity of the Janisaries; and,
in time of storm, tumult and massacre, beauty, infancy and decrepitude, would
have alike been sacrificed to the brutal ferocity of the soldiers. Famine and
blockade were certain means of conquest; and on these we founded our hopes of
victory.

Each day the soldiers of the garrison assaulted our advanced posts, and impeded
the accomplishment of our works. Fire-boats were launched from the various
ports, while our troops sometimes recoiled from the devoted courage of men who
did not seek to live, but to sell their lives dearly. These contests were
aggravated by the season: they took place during summer, when the southern
Asiatic wind came laden with intolerable heat, when the streams were dried up
in their shallow beds, and the vast basin of the sea appeared to glow under the
unmitigated rays of the solsticial sun. Nor did night refresh the earth. Dew
was denied; herbage and flowers there were none; the very trees drooped; and
summer assumed the blighted appearance of winter, as it went forth in silence
and flame to abridge the means of sustenance to man. In vain did the eye strive
to find the wreck of some northern cloud in the stainless empyrean, which might
bring hope of change and moisture to the oppressive and windless atmosphere.
All was serene, burning, annihilating. We the besiegers were in the comparison
little affected by these evils. The woods around afforded us shade,—the
river secured to us a constant supply of water; nay, detachments were employed
in furnishing the army with ice, which had been laid up on Haemus, and Athos,
and the mountains of Macedonia, while cooling fruits and wholesome food
renovated the strength of the labourers, and made us bear with less impatience
the weight of the unrefreshing air. But in the city things wore a different
face. The sun’s rays were refracted from the pavement and
buildings—the stoppage of the public fountains—the bad quality of
the food, and scarcity even of that, produced a state of suffering, which was
aggravated by the scourge of disease; while the garrison arrogated every
superfluity to themselves, adding by waste and riot to the necessary evils of
the time. Still they would not capitulate.

Suddenly the system of warfare was changed. We experienced no more assaults;
and by night and day we continued our labours unimpeded. Stranger still, when
the troops advanced near the city, the walls were vacant, and no cannon was
pointed against the intruders. When these circumstances were reported to
Raymond, he caused minute observations to be made as to what was doing within
the walls, and when his scouts returned, reporting only the continued silence
and desolation of the city, he commanded the army to be drawn out before the
gates. No one appeared on the walls; the very portals, though locked and
barred, seemed unguarded; above, the many domes and glittering crescents
pierced heaven; while the old walls, survivors of ages, with ivy-crowned tower
and weed-tangled buttress, stood as rocks in an uninhabited waste. From within
the city neither shout nor cry, nor aught except the casual howling of a dog,
broke the noon-day stillness. Even our soldiers were awed to silence; the music
paused; the clang of arms was hushed. Each man asked his fellow in whispers,
the meaning of this sudden peace; while Raymond from an height endeavoured, by
means of glasses, to discover and observe the stratagem of the enemy. No form
could be discerned on the terraces of the houses; in the higher parts of the
town no moving shadow bespoke the presence of any living being: the very trees
waved not, and mocked the stability of architecture with like immovability.

The tramp of horses, distinctly heard in the silence, was at length discerned.
It was a troop sent by Karazza, the Admiral; they bore dispatches to the Lord
General. The contents of these papers were important. The night before, the
watch, on board one of the smaller vessels anchored near the seraglio wall, was
roused by a slight splashing as of muffled oars; the alarm was given: twelve
small boats, each containing three Janizaries, were descried endeavouring to
make their way through the fleet to the opposite shore of Scutari. When they
found themselves discovered they discharged their muskets, and some came to the
front to cover the others, whose crews, exerting all their strength,
endeavoured to escape with their light barks from among the dark hulls that
environed them. They were in the end all sunk, and, with the exception of two
or three prisoners, the crews drowned. Little could be got from the survivors;
but their cautious answers caused it to be surmised that several expeditions
had preceded this last, and that several Turks of rank and importance had been
conveyed to Asia. The men disdainfully repelled the idea of having deserted the
defence of their city; and one, the youngest among them, in answer to the taunt
of a sailor, exclaimed, “Take it, Christian dogs! take the palaces, the
gardens, the mosques, the abode of our fathers—take plague with them;
pestilence is the enemy we fly; if she be your friend, hug her to your bosoms.
The curse of Allah is on Stamboul, share ye her fate.”

Such was the account sent by Karazza to Raymond: but a tale full of monstrous
exaggerations, though founded on this, was spread by the accompanying troop
among our soldiers. A murmur arose, the city was the prey of pestilence;
already had a mighty power subjugated the inhabitants; Death had become lord of
Constantinople.

I have heard a picture described, wherein all the inhabitants of earth were
drawn out in fear to stand the encounter of Death. The feeble and decrepid
fled; the warriors retreated, though they threatened even in flight. Wolves and
lions, and various monsters of the desert roared against him; while the grim
Unreality hovered shaking his spectral dart, a solitary but invincible
assailant. Even so was it with the army of Greece. I am convinced, that had the
myriad troops of Asia come from over the Propontis, and stood defenders of the
Golden City, each and every Greek would have marched against the overwhelming
numbers, and have devoted himself with patriotic fury for his country. But here
no hedge of bayonets opposed itself, no death-dealing artillery, no formidable
array of brave soldiers—the unguarded walls afforded easy
entrance—the vacant palaces luxurious dwellings; but above the dome of
St. Sophia the superstitious Greek saw Pestilence, and shrunk in trepidation
from her influence.

Raymond was actuated by far other feelings. He descended the hill with a face
beaming with triumph, and pointing with his sword to the gates, commanded his
troops to—down with those barricades—the only obstacles now to
completest victory. The soldiers answered his cheerful words with aghast and
awe-struck looks; instinctively they drew back, and Raymond rode in the front
of the lines:—“By my sword I swear,” he cried, “that no
ambush or stratagem endangers you. The enemy is already vanquished; the
pleasant places, the noble dwellings and spoil of the city are already yours;
force the gate; enter and possess the seats of your ancestors, your own
inheritance!”

An universal shudder and fearful whispering passed through the lines; not a
soldier moved. “Cowards!” exclaimed their general, exasperated,
“give me an hatchet! I alone will enter! I will plant your standard; and
when you see it wave from yon highest minaret, you may gain courage, and rally
round it!”

One of the officers now came forward: “General,” he said, “we
neither fear the courage, nor arms, the open attack, nor secret ambush of the
Moslems. We are ready to expose our breasts, exposed ten thousand times before,
to the balls and scymetars of the infidels, and to fall gloriously for Greece.
But we will not die in heaps, like dogs poisoned in summer-time, by the
pestilential air of that city—we dare not go against the plague!”

A multitude of men are feeble and inert, without a voice, a leader; give them
that, and they regain the strength belonging to their numbers. Shouts from a
thousand voices now rent the air—the cry of applause became universal.
Raymond saw the danger; he was willing to save his troops from the crime of
disobedience; for he knew, that contention once begun between the commander and
his army, each act and word added to the weakness of the former, and bestowed
power on the latter. He gave orders for the retreat to be sounded, and the
regiments repaired in good order to the camp.

I hastened to carry the intelligence of these strange proceedings to Perdita;
and we were soon joined by Raymond. He looked gloomy and perturbed. My sister
was struck by my narrative: “How beyond the imagination of man,”
she exclaimed, “are the decrees of heaven, wondrous and
inexplicable!”

“Foolish girl,” cried Raymond angrily, “are you like my
valiant soldiers, panic-struck? What is there inexplicable, pray, tell me, in
so very natural an occurrence? Does not the plague rage each year in Stamboul?
What wonder, that this year, when as we are told, its virulence is unexampled
in Asia, that it should have occasioned double havoc in that city? What wonder
then, in time of siege, want, extreme heat, and drought, that it should make
unaccustomed ravages? Less wonder far is it, that the garrison, despairing of
being able to hold out longer, should take advantage of the negligence of our
fleet to escape at once from siege and capture. It is not pestilence —by
the God that lives! it is not either plague or impending danger that makes us,
like birds in harvest-time, terrified by a scarecrow, abstain from the ready
prey—it is base superstition—And thus the aim of the valiant is
made the shuttlecock of fools; the worthy ambition of the high-souled, the
plaything of these tamed hares! But yet Stamboul shall be ours! By my past
labours, by torture and imprisonment suffered for them, by my victories, by my
sword, I swear—by my hopes of fame, by my former deserts now awaiting
their reward, I deeply vow, with these hands to plant the cross on yonder
mosque!”

“Dearest Raymond!” interrupted Perdita, in a supplicating accent.

He had been walking to and fro in the marble hall of the seraglio; his very
lips were pale with rage, while, quivering, they shaped his angry words—
his eyes shot fire—his gestures seemed restrained by their very
vehemence. “Perdita,” he continued, impatiently, “I know what
you would say; I know that you love me, that you are good and gentle; but this
is no woman’s work—nor can a female heart guess at the hurricane
which tears me!”

He seemed half afraid of his own violence, and suddenly quitted the hall: a
look from Perdita shewed me her distress, and I followed him. He was pacing the
garden: his passions were in a state of inconceivable turbulence. “Am I
for ever,” he cried, “to be the sport of fortune! Must man, the
heaven-climber, be for ever the victim of the crawling reptiles of his species!
Were I as you, Lionel, looking forward to many years of life, to a succession
of love-enlightened days, to refined enjoyments and fresh-springing hopes, I
might yield, and breaking my General’s staff, seek repose in the glades
of Windsor. But I am about to die!—nay, interrupt me not—soon I
shall die. From the many-peopled earth, from the sympathies of man, from the
loved resorts of my youth, from the kindness of my friends, from the affection
of my only beloved Perdita, I am about to be removed. Such is the will of fate!
Such the decree of the High Ruler from whom there is no appeal: to whom I
submit. But to lose all—to lose with life and love, glory also! It shall
not be!

“I, and in a few brief years, all you,—this panic-struck army, and
all the population of fair Greece, will no longer be. But other generations
will arise, and ever and for ever will continue, to be made happier by our
present acts, to be glorified by our valour. The prayer of my youth was to be
one among those who render the pages of earth’s history splendid; who
exalt the race of man, and make this little globe a dwelling of the mighty.
Alas, for Raymond! the prayer of his youth is wasted—the hopes of his
manhood are null!

“From my dungeon in yonder city I cried, soon I will be thy lord! When
Evadne pronounced my death, I thought that the title of Victor of
Constantinople would be written on my tomb, and I subdued all mortal fear. I
stand before its vanquished walls, and dare not call myself a conqueror. So
shall it not be! Did not Alexander leap from the walls of the city of the
Oxydracae, to shew his coward troops the way to victory, encountering alone the
swords of its defenders? Even so will I brave the plague—and though no
man follow, I will plant the Grecian standard on the height of St.
Sophia.”

Reason came unavailing to such high-wrought feelings. In vain I shewed him,
that when winter came, the cold would dissipate the pestilential air, and
restore courage to the Greeks. “Talk not of other season than
this!” he cried. “I have lived my last winter, and the date of this
year, 2092, will be carved upon my tomb. Already do I see,” he continued,
looking up mournfully, “the bourne and precipitate edge of my existence,
over which I plunge into the gloomy mystery of the life to come. I am prepared,
so that I leave behind a trail of light so radiant, that my worst enemies
cannot cloud it. I owe this to Greece, to you, to my surviving Perdita, and to
myself, the victim of ambition.”

We were interrupted by an attendant, who announced, that the staff of Raymond
was assembled in the council-chamber. He requested me in the meantime to ride
through the camp, and to observe and report to him the dispositions of the
soldiers; he then left me. I had been excited to the utmost by the proceedings
of the day, and now more than ever by the passionate language of Raymond. Alas!
for human reason! He accused the Greeks of superstition: what name did he give
to the faith he lent to the predictions of Evadne? I passed from the palace of
Sweet Waters to the plain on which the encampment lay, and found its
inhabitants in commotion. The arrival of several with fresh stories of marvels,
from the fleet; the exaggerations bestowed on what was already known; tales of
old prophecies, of fearful histories of whole regions which had been laid waste
during the present year by pestilence, alarmed and occupied the troops.
Discipline was lost; the army disbanded itself. Each individual, before a part
of a great whole moving only in unison with others, now became resolved into
the unit nature had made him, and thought of himself only. They stole off at
first by ones and twos, then in larger companies, until, unimpeded by the
officers, whole battalions sought the road that led to Macedonia.

About midnight I returned to the palace and sought Raymond; he was alone, and
apparently composed; such composure, at least, was his as is inspired by a
resolve to adhere to a certain line of conduct. He heard my account of the
self-dissolution of the army with calmness, and then said, “You know,
Verney, my fixed determination not to quit this place, until in the light of
day Stamboul is confessedly ours. If the men I have about me shrink from
following me, others, more courageous, are to be found. Go you before break of
day, bear these dispatches to Karazza, add to them your own entreaties that he
send me his marines and naval force; if I can get but one regiment to second
me, the rest would follow of course. Let him send me this regiment. I shall
expect your return by to-morrow noon.”

Methought this was but a poor expedient; but I assured him of my obedience and
zeal. I quitted him to take a few hours rest. With the breaking of morning I
was accoutred for my ride. I lingered awhile, desirous of taking leave of
Perdita, and from my window observed the approach of the sun. The golden
splendour arose, and weary nature awoke to suffer yet another day of heat and
thirsty decay. No flowers lifted up their dew-laden cups to meet the dawn; the
dry grass had withered on the plains; the burning fields of air were vacant of
birds; the cicale alone, children of the sun, began their shrill and deafening
song among the cypresses and olives. I saw Raymond’s coal-black charger
brought to the palace gate; a small company of officers arrived soon after;
care and fear was painted on each cheek, and in each eye, unrefreshed by sleep.
I found Raymond and Perdita together. He was watching the rising sun, while
with one arm he encircled his beloved’s waist; she looked on him, the sun
of her life, with earnest gaze of mingled anxiety and tenderness. Raymond
started angrily when he saw me. “Here still?” he cried. “Is
this your promised zeal?”

“Pardon me,” I said, “but even as you speak, I am
gone.”

“Nay, pardon me,” he replied; “I have no right to command or
reproach; but my life hangs on your departure and speedy return.
Farewell!”

His voice had recovered its bland tone, but a dark cloud still hung on his
features. I would have delayed; I wished to recommend watchfulness to Perdita,
but his presence restrained me. I had no pretence for my hesitation; and on his
repeating his farewell, I clasped his outstretched hand; it was cold and
clammy. “Take care of yourself, my dear Lord,” I said.

“Nay,” said Perdita, “that task shall be mine. Return
speedily, Lionel.” With an air of absence he was playing with her auburn
locks, while she leaned on him; twice I turned back, only to look again on this
matchless pair. At last, with slow and heavy steps, I had paced out of the
hall, and sprung upon my horse. At that moment Clara flew towards me; clasping
my knee she cried, “Make haste back, uncle! Dear uncle, I have such
fearful dreams; I dare not tell my mother. Do not be long away!” I
assured her of my impatience to return, and then, with a small escort rode
along the plain towards the tower of Marmora.

I fulfilled my commission; I saw Karazza. He was somewhat surprised; he would
see, he said, what could be done; but it required time; and Raymond had ordered
me to return by noon. It was impossible to effect any thing in so short a time.
I must stay till the next day; or come back, after having reported the present
state of things to the general. My choice was easily made. A restlessness, a
fear of what was about to betide, a doubt as to Raymond’s purposes, urged
me to return without delay to his quarters. Quitting the Seven Towers, I rode
eastward towards the Sweet Waters. I took a circuitous path, principally for
the sake of going to the top of the mount before mentioned, which commanded a
view of the city. I had my glass with me. The city basked under the noon-day
sun, and the venerable walls formed its picturesque boundary. Immediately
before me was the Top Kapou, the gate near which Mahomet had made the breach by
which he entered the city. Trees gigantic and aged grew near; before the gate I
discerned a crowd of moving human figures—with intense curiosity I lifted
my glass to my eye. I saw Lord Raymond on his charger; a small company of
officers had gathered about him; and behind was a promiscuous concourse of
soldiers and subalterns, their discipline lost, their arms thrown aside; no
music sounded, no banners streamed. The only flag among them was one which
Raymond carried; he pointed with it to the gate of the city. The circle round
him fell back. With angry gestures he leapt from his horse, and seizing a
hatchet that hung from his saddle-bow, went with the apparent intention of
battering down the opposing gate. A few men came to aid him; their numbers
increased; under their united blows the obstacle was vanquished, gate,
portcullis, and fence were demolished; and the wide sun-lit way, leading to the
heart of the city, now lay open before them. The men shrank back; they seemed
afraid of what they had already done, and stood as if they expected some Mighty
Phantom to stalk in offended majesty from the opening. Raymond sprung lightly
on his horse, grasped the standard, and with words which I could not hear (but
his gestures, being their fit accompaniment, were marked by passionate energy,)
he seemed to adjure their assistance and companionship; even as he spoke, the
crowd receded from him. Indignation now transported him; his words I guessed
were fraught with disdain—then turning from his coward followers, he
addressed himself to enter the city alone. His very horse seemed to back from
the fatal entrance; his dog, his faithful dog, lay moaning and supplicating in
his path—in a moment more, he had plunged the rowels into the sides of
the stung animal, who bounded forward, and he, the gateway passed, was
galloping up the broad and desart street.

Until this moment my soul had been in my eyes only. I had gazed with wonder,
mixed with fear and enthusiasm. The latter feeling now predominated. I forgot
the distance between us: “I will go with thee, Raymond!” I cried;
but, my eye removed from the glass, I could scarce discern the pigmy forms of
the crowd, which about a mile from me surrounded the gate; the form of Raymond
was lost. Stung with impatience, I urged my horse with force of spur and
loosened reins down the acclivity, that, before danger could arrive, I might be
at the side of my noble, godlike friend. A number of buildings and trees
intervened, when I had reached the plain, hiding the city from my view. But at
that moment a crash was heard. Thunderlike it reverberated through the sky,
while the air was darkened. A moment more and the old walls again met my sight,
while over them hovered a murky cloud; fragments of buildings whirled above,
half seen in smoke, while flames burst out beneath, and continued explosions
filled the air with terrific thunders. Flying from the mass of falling ruin
which leapt over the high walls, and shook the ivy towers, a crowd of soldiers
made for the road by which I came; I was surrounded, hemmed in by them, unable
to get forward. My impatience rose to its utmost; I stretched out my hands to
the men; I conjured them to turn back and save their General, the conqueror of
Stamboul, the liberator of Greece; tears, aye tears, in warm flow gushed from
my eyes—I would not believe in his destruction; yet every mass that
darkened the air seemed to bear with it a portion of the martyred Raymond.
Horrible sights were shaped to me in the turbid cloud that hovered over the
city; and my only relief was derived from the struggles I made to approach the
gate. Yet when I effected my purpose, all I could discern within the precincts
of the massive walls was a city of fire: the open way through which Raymond had
ridden was enveloped in smoke and flame. After an interval the explosions
ceased, but the flames still shot up from various quarters; the dome of St.
Sophia had disappeared. Strange to say (the result perhaps of the concussion of
air occasioned by the blowing up of the city) huge, white thunder clouds lifted
themselves up from the southern horizon, and gathered over-head; they were the
first blots on the blue expanse that I had seen for months, and amidst this
havoc and despair they inspired pleasure. The vault above became obscured,
lightning flashed from the heavy masses, followed instantaneously by crashing
thunder; then the big rain fell. The flames of the city bent beneath it; and
the smoke and dust arising from the ruins was dissipated.

I no sooner perceived an abatement of the flames than, hurried on by an
irresistible impulse, I endeavoured to penetrate the town. I could only do this
on foot, as the mass of ruin was impracticable for a horse. I had never entered
the city before, and its ways were unknown to me. The streets were blocked up,
the ruins smoking; I climbed up one heap, only to view others in succession;
and nothing told me where the centre of the town might be, or towards what
point Raymond might have directed his course. The rain ceased; the clouds sunk
behind the horizon; it was now evening, and the sun descended swiftly the
western sky. I scrambled on, until I came to a street, whose wooden houses,
half-burnt, had been cooled by the rain, and were fortunately uninjured by the
gunpowder. Up this I hurried—until now I had not seen a vestige of man.
Yet none of the defaced human forms which I distinguished, could be Raymond; so
I turned my eyes away, while my heart sickened within me. I came to an open
space—a mountain of ruin in the midst, announced that some large mosque
had occupied the space—and here, scattered about, I saw various articles
of luxury and wealth, singed, destroyed—but shewing what they had been in
their ruin—jewels, strings of pearls, embroidered robes, rich furs,
glittering tapestries, and oriental ornaments, seemed to have been collected
here in a pile destined for destruction; but the rain had stopped the havoc
midway.

Hours passed, while in this scene of ruin I sought for Raymond. Insurmountable
heaps sometimes opposed themselves; the still burning fires scorched me. The
sun set; the atmosphere grew dim—and the evening star no longer shone
companionless. The glare of flames attested the progress of destruction, while,
during mingled light and obscurity, the piles around me took gigantic
proportions and weird shapes. For a moment I could yield to the creative power
of the imagination, and for a moment was soothed by the sublime fictions it
presented to me. The beatings of my human heart drew me back to blank reality.
Where, in this wilderness of death, art thou, O Raymond—ornament of
England, deliverer of Greece, “hero of unwritten story,” where in
this burning chaos are thy dear relics strewed? I called aloud for
him—through the darkness of night, over the scorching ruins of fallen
Constantinople, his name was heard; no voice replied—echo even was mute.

I was overcome by weariness; the solitude depressed my spirits. The sultry air
impregnated with dust, the heat and smoke of burning palaces, palsied my limbs.
Hunger suddenly came acutely upon me. The excitement which had hitherto
sustained me was lost; as a building, whose props are loosened, and whose
foundations rock, totters and falls, so when enthusiasm and hope deserted me,
did my strength fail. I sat on the sole remaining step of an edifice, which
even in its downfall, was huge and magnificent; a few broken walls, not
dislodged by gunpowder, stood in fantastic groupes, and a flame glimmered at
intervals on the summit of the pile. For a time hunger and sleep contended,
till the constellations reeled before my eyes and then were lost. I strove to
rise, but my heavy lids closed, my limbs over-wearied, claimed repose—I
rested my head on the stone, I yielded to the grateful sensation of utter
forgetfulness; and in that scene of desolation, on that night of
despair—I slept.

[3]
Calderon de la Barca.

CHAPTER III.

The stars still shone brightly when I awoke, and Taurus high in the southern
heaven shewed that it was midnight. I awoke from disturbed dreams. Methought I
had been invited to Timon’s last feast; I came with keen appetite, the
covers were removed, the hot water sent up its unsatisfying steams, while I
fled before the anger of the host, who assumed the form of Raymond; while to my
diseased fancy, the vessels hurled by him after me, were surcharged with fetid
vapour, and my friend’s shape, altered by a thousand distortions,
expanded into a gigantic phantom, bearing on its brow the sign of pestilence.
The growing shadow rose and rose, filling, and then seeming to endeavour to
burst beyond, the adamantine vault that bent over, sustaining and enclosing the
world. The night-mare became torture; with a strong effort I threw off sleep,
and recalled reason to her wonted functions. My first thought was Perdita; to
her I must return; her I must support, drawing such food from despair as might
best sustain her wounded heart; recalling her from the wild excesses of grief,
by the austere laws of duty, and the soft tenderness of regret.

The position of the stars was my only guide. I turned from the awful ruin of
the Golden City, and, after great exertion, succeeded in extricating myself
from its enclosure. I met a company of soldiers outside the walls; I borrowed a
horse from one of them, and hastened to my sister. The appearance of the plain
was changed during this short interval; the encampment was broken up; the
relics of the disbanded army met in small companies here and there; each face
was clouded; every gesture spoke astonishment and dismay.

With an heavy heart I entered the palace, and stood fearful to advance, to
speak, to look. In the midst of the hall was Perdita; she sat on the marble
pavement, her head fallen on her bosom, her hair dishevelled, her fingers
twined busily one within the other; she was pale as marble, and every feature
was contracted by agony. She perceived me, and looked up enquiringly; her half
glance of hope was misery; the words died before I could articulate them; I
felt a ghastly smile wrinkle my lips. She understood my gesture; again her head
fell; again her fingers worked restlessly. At last I recovered speech, but my
voice terrified her; the hapless girl had understood my look, and for worlds
she would not that the tale of her heavy misery should have been shaped out and
confirmed by hard, irrevocable words. Nay, she seemed to wish to distract my
thoughts from the subject: she rose from the floor: “Hush!” she
said, whisperingly; “after much weeping, Clara sleeps; we must not
disturb her.” She seated herself then on the same ottoman where I had
left her in the morning resting on the beating heart of her Raymond; I dared
not approach her, but sat at a distant corner, watching her starting and
nervous gestures. At length, in an abrupt manner she asked, “Where is
he?”

“O, fear not,” she continued, “fear not that I should
entertain hope! Yet tell me, have you found him? To have him once more in my
arms, to see him, however changed, is all I desire. Though Constantinople be
heaped above him as a tomb, yet I must find him—then cover us with the
city’s weight, with a mountain piled above—I care not, so that one
grave hold Raymond and his Perdita.” Then weeping, she clung to me:
“Take me to him,” she cried, “unkind Lionel, why do you keep
me here? Of myself I cannot find him —but you know where he
lies—lead me thither.”

At first these agonizing plaints filled me with intolerable compassion. But
soon I endeavoured to extract patience for her from the ideas she suggested. I
related my adventures of the night, my endeavours to find our lost one, and my
disappointment. Turning her thoughts this way, I gave them an object which
rescued them from insanity. With apparent calmness she discussed with me the
probable spot where he might be found, and planned the means we should use for
that purpose. Then hearing of my fatigue and abstinence, she herself brought me
food. I seized the favourable moment, and endeavoured to awaken in her
something beyond the killing torpor of grief. As I spoke, my subject carried me
away; deep admiration; grief, the offspring of truest affection, the
overflowing of a heart bursting with sympathy for all that had been great and
sublime in the career of my friend, inspired me as I poured forth the praises
of Raymond.

“Alas, for us,” I cried, “who have lost this latest honour of
the world! Beloved Raymond! He is gone to the nations of the dead; he has
become one of those, who render the dark abode of the obscure grave illustrious
by dwelling there. He has journied on the road that leads to it, and joined the
mighty of soul who went before him. When the world was in its infancy death
must have been terrible, and man left his friends and kindred to dwell, a
solitary stranger, in an unknown country. But now, he who dies finds many
companions gone before to prepare for his reception. The great of past ages
people it, the exalted hero of our own days is counted among its inhabitants,
while life becomes doubly ‘the desart and the solitude.’

“What a noble creature was Raymond, the first among the men of our time.
By the grandeur of his conceptions, the graceful daring of his actions, by his
wit and beauty, he won and ruled the minds of all. Of one only fault he might
have been accused; but his death has cancelled that. I have heard him called
inconstant of purpose—when he deserted, for the sake of love, the hope of
sovereignty, and when he abdicated the protectorship of England, men blamed his
infirmity of purpose. Now his death has crowned his life, and to the end of
time it will be remembered, that he devoted himself, a willing victim, to the
glory of Greece. Such was his choice: he expected to die. He foresaw that he
should leave this cheerful earth, the lightsome sky, and thy love, Perdita; yet
he neither hesitated or turned back, going right onward to his mark of fame.
While the earth lasts, his actions will be recorded with praise. Grecian
maidens will in devotion strew flowers on his tomb, and make the air around it
resonant with patriotic hymns, in which his name will find high record.”

I saw the features of Perdita soften; the sternness of grief yielded to
tenderness—I continued:—“Thus to honour him, is the sacred
duty of his survivors. To make his name even as an holy spot of ground,
enclosing it from all hostile attacks by our praise, shedding on it the
blossoms of love and regret, guarding it from decay, and bequeathing it
untainted to posterity. Such is the duty of his friends. A dearer one belongs
to you, Perdita, mother of his child. Do you remember in her infancy, with what
transport you beheld Clara, recognizing in her the united being of yourself and
Raymond; joying to view in this living temple a manifestation of your eternal
loves. Even such is she still. You say that you have lost Raymond. O,
no!—yet he lives with you and in you there. From him she sprung, flesh of
his flesh, bone of his bone—and not, as heretofore, are you content to
trace in her downy cheek and delicate limbs, an affinity to Raymond, but in her
enthusiastic affections, in the sweet qualities of her mind, you may still find
him living, the good, the great, the beloved. Be it your care to foster this
similarity—be it your care to render her worthy of him, so that, when she
glory in her origin, she take not shame for what she is.”

I could perceive that, when I recalled my sister’s thoughts to her duties
in life, she did not listen with the same patience as before. She appeared to
suspect a plan of consolation on my part, from which she, cherishing her
new-born grief, revolted. “You talk of the future,” she said,
“while the present is all to me. Let me find the earthly dwelling of my
beloved; let us rescue that from common dust, so that in times to come men may
point to the sacred tomb, and name it his—then to other thoughts, and a
new course of life, or what else fate, in her cruel tyranny, may have marked
out for me.”

After a short repose I prepared to leave her, that I might endeavour to
accomplish her wish. In the mean time we were joined by Clara, whose pallid
cheek and scared look shewed the deep impression grief had made on her young
mind. She seemed to be full of something to which she could not give words;
but, seizing an opportunity afforded by Perdita’s absence, she preferred
to me an earnest prayer, that I would take her within view of the gate at which
her father had entered Constantinople. She promised to commit no extravagance,
to be docile, and immediately to return. I could not refuse; for Clara was not
an ordinary child; her sensibility and intelligence seemed already to have
endowed her with the rights of womanhood. With her therefore, before me on my
horse, attended only by the servant who was to re-conduct her, we rode to the
Top Kapou. We found a party of soldiers gathered round it. They were listening.
“They are human cries,” said one: “More like the howling of a
dog,” replied another; and again they bent to catch the sound of regular
distant moans, which issued from the precincts of the ruined city. “That,
Clara,” I said, “is the gate, that the street which yestermorn your
father rode up.” Whatever Clara’s intention had been in asking to
be brought hither, it was balked by the presence of the soldiers. With earnest
gaze she looked on the labyrinth of smoking piles which had been a city, and
then expressed her readiness to return home. At this moment a melancholy howl
struck on our ears; it was repeated; “Hark!” cried Clara, “he
is there; that is Florio, my father’s dog.” It seemed to me
impossible that she could recognise the sound, but she persisted in her
assertion till she gained credit with the crowd about. At least it would be a
benevolent action to rescue the sufferer, whether human or brute, from the
desolation of the town; so, sending Clara back to her home, I again entered
Constantinople. Encouraged by the impunity attendant on my former visit,
several soldiers who had made a part of Raymond’s body guard, who had
loved him, and sincerely mourned his loss, accompanied me.

It is impossible to conjecture the strange enchainment of events which restored
the lifeless form of my friend to our hands. In that part of the town where the
fire had most raged the night before, and which now lay quenched, black and
cold, the dying dog of Raymond crouched beside the mutilated form of its lord.
At such a time sorrow has no voice; affliction, tamed by its very vehemence,
is mute. The poor animal recognised me, licked my hand, crept close to its
lord, and died. He had been evidently thrown from his horse by some falling
ruin, which had crushed his head, and defaced his whole person. I bent over the
body, and took in my hand the edge of his cloak, less altered in appearance
than the human frame it clothed. I pressed it to my lips, while the rough
soldiers gathered around, mourning over this worthiest prey of death, as if
regret and endless lamentation could re-illumine the extinguished spark, or
call to its shattered prison-house of flesh the liberated spirit. Yesterday
those limbs were worth an universe; they then enshrined a transcendant power,
whose intents, words, and actions were worthy to be recorded in letters of
gold; now the superstition of affection alone could give value to the shattered
mechanism, which, incapable and clod-like, no more resembled Raymond, than the
fallen rain is like the former mansion of cloud in which it climbed the highest
skies, and gilded by the sun, attracted all eyes, and satiated the sense by its
excess of beauty.

Such as he had now become, such as was his terrene vesture, defaced and
spoiled, we wrapt it in our cloaks, and lifting the burthen in our arms, bore
it from this city of the dead. The question arose as to where we should deposit
him. In our road to the palace, we passed through the Greek cemetery; here on a
tablet of black marble I caused him to be laid; the cypresses waved high above,
their death-like gloom accorded with his state of nothingness. We cut branches
of the funereal trees and placed them over him, and on these again his sword. I
left a guard to protect this treasure of dust; and ordered perpetual torches to
be burned around.

When I returned to Perdita, I found that she had already been informed of the
success of my undertaking. He, her beloved, the sole and eternal object of her
passionate tenderness, was restored her. Such was the maniac language of her
enthusiasm. What though those limbs moved not, and those lips could no more
frame modulated accents of wisdom and love! What though like a weed flung from
the fruitless sea, he lay the prey of corruption— still that was the form
she had caressed, those the lips that meeting hers, had drank the spirit of
love from the commingling breath; that was the earthly mechanism of dissoluble
clay she had called her own. True, she looked forward to another life; true,
the burning spirit of love seemed to her unextinguishable throughout eternity.
Yet at this time, with human fondness, she clung to all that her human senses
permitted her to see and feel to be a part of Raymond.

Pale as marble, clear and beaming as that, she heard my tale, and enquired
concerning the spot where he had been deposited. Her features had lost the
distortion of grief; her eyes were brightened, her very person seemed dilated;
while the excessive whiteness and even transparency of her skin, and something
hollow in her voice, bore witness that not tranquillity, but excess of
excitement, occasioned the treacherous calm that settled on her countenance. I
asked her where he should be buried. She replied, “At Athens; even at the
Athens which he loved. Without the town, on the acclivity of Hymettus, there is
a rocky recess which he pointed out to me as the spot where he would wish to
repose.”

My own desire certainly was that he should not be removed from the spot where
he now lay. But her wish was of course to be complied with; and I entreated her
to prepare without delay for our departure.

Behold now the melancholy train cross the flats of Thrace, and wind through the
defiles, and over the mountains of Macedonia, coast the clear waves of the
Peneus, cross the Larissean plain, pass the straits of Thermopylae, and
ascending in succession Œrta and Parnassus, descend to the fertile plain of
Athens. Women bear with resignation these long drawn ills, but to a man’s
impatient spirit, the slow motion of our cavalcade, the melancholy repose we
took at noon, the perpetual presence of the pall, gorgeous though it was, that
wrapt the rifled casket which had contained Raymond, the monotonous recurrence
of day and night, unvaried by hope or change, all the circumstances of our
march were intolerable. Perdita, shut up in herself, spoke little. Her carriage
was closed; and, when we rested, she sat leaning her pale cheek on her white
cold hand, with eyes fixed on the ground, indulging thoughts which refused
communication or sympathy.

We descended from Parnassus, emerging from its many folds, and passed through
Livadia on our road to Attica. Perdita would not enter Athens; but reposing at
Marathon on the night of our arrival, conducted me on the following day, to the
spot selected by her as the treasure house of Raymond’s dear remains. It
was in a recess near the head of the ravine to the south of Hymettus. The
chasm, deep, black, and hoary, swept from the summit to the base; in the
fissures of the rock myrtle underwood grew and wild thyme, the food of many
nations of bees; enormous crags protruded into the cleft, some beetling over,
others rising perpendicularly from it. At the foot of this sublime chasm, a
fertile laughing valley reached from sea to sea, and beyond was spread the blue
Aegean, sprinkled with islands, the light waves glancing beneath the sun. Close
to the spot on which we stood, was a solitary rock, high and conical, which,
divided on every side from the mountain, seemed a nature-hewn pyramid; with
little labour this block was reduced to a perfect shape; the narrow cell was
scooped out beneath in which Raymond was placed, and a short inscription,
carved in the living stone, recorded the name of its tenant, the cause and aera
of his death.

Every thing was accomplished with speed under my directions. I agreed to leave
the finishing and guardianship of the tomb to the head of the religious
establishment at Athens, and by the end of October prepared for my return to
England. I mentioned this to Perdita. It was painful to appear to drag her from
the last scene that spoke of her lost one; but to linger here was vain, and my
very soul was sick with its yearning to rejoin my Idris and her babes. In
reply, my sister requested me to accompany her the following evening to the
tomb of Raymond. Some days had passed since I had visited the spot. The path to
it had been enlarged, and steps hewn in the rock led us less circuitously than
before, to the spot itself; the platform on which the pyramid stood was
enlarged, and looking towards the south, in a recess overshadowed by the
straggling branches of a wild fig-tree, I saw foundations dug, and props and
rafters fixed, evidently the commencement of a cottage; standing on its
unfinished threshold, the tomb was at our right-hand, the whole ravine, and
plain, and azure sea immediately before us; the dark rocks received a glow from
the descending sun, which glanced along the cultivated valley, and dyed in
purple and orange the placid waves; we sat on a rocky elevation, and I gazed
with rapture on the beauteous panorama of living and changeful colours, which
varied and enhanced the graces of earth and ocean.

“Did I not do right,” said Perdita, “in having my loved one
conveyed hither? Hereafter this will be the cynosure of Greece. In such a spot
death loses half its terrors, and even the inanimate dust appears to partake of
the spirit of beauty which hallows this region. Lionel, he sleeps there; that
is the grave of Raymond, he whom in my youth I first loved; whom my heart
accompanied in days of separation and anger; to whom I am now joined for ever.
Never—mark me—never will I leave this spot. Methinks his spirit
remains here as well as that dust, which, uncommunicable though it be, is more
precious in its nothingness than aught else widowed earth clasps to her
sorrowing bosom. The myrtle bushes, the thyme, the little cyclamen, which peep
from the fissures of the rock, all the produce of the place, bear affinity to
him; the light that invests the hills participates in his essence, and sky and
mountains, sea and valley, are imbued by the presence of his spirit. I will
live and die here!

“Go you to England, Lionel; return to sweet Idris and dearest Adrian;
return, and let my orphan girl be as a child of your own in your house. Look on
me as dead; and truly if death be a mere change of state, I am dead. This is
another world, from that which late I inhabited, from that which is now your
home. Here I hold communion only with the has been, and to come. Go you to
England, and leave me where alone I can consent to drag out the miserable days
which I must still live.”

A shower of tears terminated her sad harangue. I had expected some extravagant
proposition, and remained silent awhile, collecting my thoughts that I might
the better combat her fanciful scheme. “You cherish dreary thoughts, my
dear Perdita,” I said, “nor do I wonder that for a time your better
reason should be influenced by passionate grief and a disturbed imagination.
Even I am in love with this last home of Raymond’s; nevertheless we must
quit it.”

“I expected this,” cried Perdita; “I supposed that you would
treat me as a mad, foolish girl. But do not deceive yourself; this cottage is
built by my order; and here I shall remain, until the hour arrives when I may
share his happier dwelling.”

“My dearest girl!”

“And what is there so strange in my design? I might have deceived you; I
might have talked of remaining here only a few months; in your anxiety to reach
Windsor you would have left me, and without reproach or contention, I might
have pursued my plan. But I disdained the artifice; or rather in my
wretchedness it was my only consolation to pour out my heart to you, my
brother, my only friend. You will not dispute with me? You know how wilful your
poor, misery-stricken sister is. Take my girl with you; wean her from sights
and thoughts of sorrow; let infantine hilarity revisit her heart, and animate
her eyes; so could it never be, were she near me; it is far better for all of
you that you should never see me again. For myself, I will not voluntarily seek
death, that is, I will not, while I can command myself; and I can here. But
drag me from this country; and my power of self control vanishes, nor can I
answer for the violence my agony of grief may lead me to commit.”

“You clothe your meaning, Perdita,” I replied, “in powerful
words, yet that meaning is selfish and unworthy of you. You have often agreed
with me that there is but one solution to the intricate riddle of life; to
improve ourselves, and contribute to the happiness of others: and now, in the
very prime of life, you desert your principles, and shut yourself up in useless
solitude. Will you think of Raymond less at Windsor, the scene of your early
happiness? Will you commune less with his departed spirit, while you watch over
and cultivate the rare excellence of his child? You have been sadly visited;
nor do I wonder that a feeling akin to insanity should drive you to bitter and
unreasonable imaginings. But a home of love awaits you in your native England.
My tenderness and affection must soothe you; the society of Raymond’s
friends will be of more solace than these dreary speculations. We will all make
it our first care, our dearest task, to contribute to your happiness.”

Perdita shook her head; “If it could be so,” she replied, “I
were much in the wrong to disdain your offers. But it is not a matter of
choice; I can live here only. I am a part of this scene; each and all its
properties are a part of me. This is no sudden fancy; I live by it. The
knowledge that I am here, rises with me in the morning, and enables me to
endure the light; it is mingled with my food, which else were poison; it walks,
it sleeps with me, for ever it accompanies me. Here I may even cease to repine,
and may add my tardy consent to the decree which has taken him from me. He
would rather have died such a death, which will be recorded in history to
endless time, than have lived to old age unknown, unhonoured. Nor can I desire
better, than, having been the chosen and beloved of his heart, here, in
youth’s prime, before added years can tarnish the best feelings of my
nature, to watch his tomb, and speedily rejoin him in his blessed repose.

“So much, my dearest Lionel, I have said, wishing to persuade you that I
do right. If you are unconvinced, I can add nothing further by way of argument,
and I can only declare my fixed resolve. I stay here; force only can remove me.
Be it so; drag me away—I return; confine me, imprison me, still I escape,
and come here. Or would my brother rather devote the heart-broken Perdita to
the straw and chains of a maniac, than suffer her to rest in peace beneath the
shadow of His society, in this my own selected and beloved
recess?”—

All this appeared to me, I own, methodized madness. I imagined, that it was my
imperative duty to take her from scenes that thus forcibly reminded her of her
loss. Nor did I doubt, that in the tranquillity of our family circle at
Windsor, she would recover some degree of composure, and in the end, of
happiness. My affection for Clara also led me to oppose these fond dreams of
cherished grief; her sensibility had already been too much excited; her infant
heedlessness too soon exchanged for deep and anxious thought. The strange and
romantic scheme of her mother, might confirm and perpetuate the painful view of
life, which had intruded itself thus early on her contemplation.

On returning home, the captain of the steam packet with whom I had agreed to
sail, came to tell me, that accidental circumstances hastened his departure,
and that, if I went with him, I must come on board at five on the following
morning. I hastily gave my consent to this arrangement, and as hastily formed a
plan through which Perdita should be forced to become my companion. I believe
that most people in my situation would have acted in the same manner. Yet this
consideration does not, or rather did not in after time, diminish the
reproaches of my conscience. At the moment, I felt convinced that I was acting
for the best, and that all I did was right and even necessary.

I sat with Perdita and soothed her, by my seeming assent to her wild scheme.
She received my concurrence with pleasure, and a thousand times over thanked
her deceiving, deceitful brother. As night came on, her spirits, enlivened by
my unexpected concession, regained an almost forgotten vivacity. I pretended to
be alarmed by the feverish glow in her cheek; I entreated her to take a
composing draught; I poured out the medicine, which she took docilely from me.
I watched her as she drank it. Falsehood and artifice are in themselves so
hateful, that, though I still thought I did right, a feeling of shame and guilt
came painfully upon me. I left her, and soon heard that she slept soundly under
the influence of the opiate I had administered. She was carried thus
unconscious on board; the anchor weighed, and the wind being favourable, we
stood far out to sea; with all the canvas spread, and the power of the engine
to assist, we scudded swiftly and steadily through the chafed element.

It was late in the day before Perdita awoke, and a longer time elapsed before
recovering from the torpor occasioned by the laudanum, she perceived her change
of situation. She started wildly from her couch, and flew to the cabin window.
The blue and troubled sea sped past the vessel, and was spread shoreless
around: the sky was covered by a rack, which in its swift motion shewed how
speedily she was borne away. The creaking of the masts, the clang of the
wheels, the tramp above, all persuaded her that she was already far from the
shores of Greece.—“Where are we?” she cried, “where are
we going?”—

The attendant whom I had stationed to watch her, replied, “to
England.”—

“And my brother?”—

“Is on deck, Madam.”

“Unkind! unkind!” exclaimed the poor victim, as with a deep sigh
she looked on the waste of waters. Then without further remark, she threw
herself on her couch, and closing her eyes remained motionless; so that but for
the deep sighs that burst from her, it would have seemed that she slept.

As soon as I heard that she had spoken, I sent Clara to her, that the sight of
the lovely innocent might inspire gentle and affectionate thoughts. But neither
the presence of her child, nor a subsequent visit from me, could rouse my
sister. She looked on Clara with a countenance of woful meaning, but she did
not speak. When I appeared, she turned away, and in reply to my enquiries, only
said, “You know not what you have done!”—I trusted that this
sullenness betokened merely the struggle between disappointment and natural
affection, and that in a few days she would be reconciled to her fate.

When night came on, she begged that Clara might sleep in a separate cabin. Her
servant, however, remained with her. About midnight she spoke to the latter,
saying that she had had a bad dream, and bade her go to her daughter, and bring
word whether she rested quietly. The woman obeyed.

The breeze, that had flagged since sunset, now rose again. I was on deck,
enjoying our swift progress. The quiet was disturbed only by the rush of waters
as they divided before the steady keel, the murmur of the moveless and full
sails, the wind whistling in the shrouds, and the regular motion of the engine.
The sea was gently agitated, now shewing a white crest, and now resuming an
uniform hue; the clouds had disappeared; and dark ether clipt the broad ocean,
in which the constellations vainly sought their accustomed mirror. Our rate
could not have been less than eight knots.

Suddenly I heard a splash in the sea. The sailors on watch rushed to the side
of the vessel, with the cry—some one gone overboard. “It is not
from deck,” said the man at the helm, “something has been thrown
from the aft cabin.” A call for the boat to be lowered was echoed from
the deck. I rushed into my sister’s cabin; it was empty.

With sails abaft, the engine stopt, the vessel remained unwillingly stationary,
until, after an hour’s search, my poor Perdita was brought on board. But
no care could re-animate her, no medicine cause her dear eyes to open, and the
blood to flow again from her pulseless heart. One clenched hand contained a
slip of paper, on which was written, “To Athens.” To ensure her
removal thither, and prevent the irrecoverable loss of her body in the wide
sea, she had had the precaution to fasten a long shawl round her waist, and
again to the staunchions of the cabin window. She had drifted somewhat under
the keel of the vessel, and her being out of sight occasioned the delay in
finding her. And thus the ill-starred girl died a victim to my senseless
rashness. Thus, in early day, she left us for the company of the dead, and
preferred to share the rocky grave of Raymond, before the animated scene this
cheerful earth afforded, and the society of loving friends. Thus in her
twenty-ninth year she died; having enjoyed some few years of the happiness of
paradise, and sustaining a reverse to which her impatient spirit and
affectionate disposition were unable to submit. As I marked the placid
expression that had settled on her countenance in death, I felt, in spite of
the pangs of remorse, in spite of heart-rending regret, that it was better to
die so, than to drag on long, miserable years of repining and inconsolable
grief. Stress of weather drove us up the Adriatic Gulph; and, our vessel being
hardly fitted to weather a storm, we took refuge in the port of Ancona. Here I
met Georgio Palli, the vice-admiral of the Greek fleet, a former friend and
warm partizan of Raymond. I committed the remains of my lost Perdita to his
care, for the purpose of having them transported to Hymettus, and placed in the
cell her Raymond already occupied beneath the pyramid. This was all
accomplished even as I wished. She reposed beside her beloved, and the tomb
above was inscribed with the united names of Raymond and Perdita.

I then came to a resolution of pursuing our journey to England overland. My own
heart was racked by regrets and remorse. The apprehension, that Raymond had
departed for ever, that his name, blended eternally with the past, must be
erased from every anticipation of the future, had come slowly upon me. I had
always admired his talents; his noble aspirations; his grand conceptions of the
glory and majesty of his ambition: his utter want of mean passions; his
fortitude and daring. In Greece I had learnt to love him; his very waywardness,
and self-abandonment to the impulses of superstition, attached me to him
doubly; it might be weakness, but it was the antipodes of all that was
grovelling and selfish. To these pangs were added the loss of Perdita, lost
through my own accursed self-will and conceit. This dear one, my sole relation;
whose progress I had marked from tender childhood through the varied path of
life, and seen her throughout conspicuous for integrity, devotion, and true
affection; for all that constitutes the peculiar graces of the female
character, and beheld her at last the victim of too much loving, too constant
an attachment to the perishable and lost, she, in her pride of beauty and life,
had thrown aside the pleasant perception of the apparent world for the
unreality of the grave, and had left poor Clara quite an orphan. I concealed
from this beloved child that her mother’s death was voluntary, and tried
every means to awaken cheerfulness in her sorrow-stricken spirit.

One of my first acts for the recovery even of my own composure, was to bid
farewell to the sea. Its hateful splash renewed again and again to my sense the
death of my sister; its roar was a dirge; in every dark hull that was tossed on
its inconstant bosom, I imaged a bier, that would convey to death all who
trusted to its treacherous smiles. Farewell to the sea! Come, my Clara, sit
beside me in this aerial bark; quickly and gently it cleaves the azure serene,
and with soft undulation glides upon the current of the air; or, if storm shake
its fragile mechanism, the green earth is below; we can descend, and take
shelter on the stable continent. Here aloft, the companions of the swift-winged
birds, we skim through the unresisting element, fleetly and fearlessly. The
light boat heaves not, nor is opposed by death-bearing waves; the ether opens
before the prow, and the shadow of the globe that upholds it, shelters us from
the noon-day sun. Beneath are the plains of Italy, or the vast undulations of
the wave-like Apennines: fertility reposes in their many folds, and woods crown
the summits. The free and happy peasant, unshackled by the Austrian, bears the
double harvest to the garner; and the refined citizens rear without dread the
long blighted tree of knowledge in this garden of the world. We were lifted
above the Alpine peaks, and from their deep and brawling ravines entered the
plain of fair France, and after an airy journey of six days, we landed at
Dieppe, furled the feathered wings, and closed the silken globe of our little
pinnace. A heavy rain made this mode of travelling now incommodious; so we
embarked in a steam-packet, and after a short passage landed at Portsmouth.

A strange story was rife here. A few days before, a tempest-struck vessel had
appeared off the town: the hull was parched-looking and cracked, the sails
rent, and bent in a careless, unseamanlike manner, the shrouds tangled and
broken. She drifted towards the harbour, and was stranded on the sands at the
entrance. In the morning the custom-house officers, together with a crowd of
idlers, visited her. One only of the crew appeared to have arrived with her. He
had got to shore, and had walked a few paces towards the town, and then,
vanquished by malady and approaching death, had fallen on the inhospitable
beach. He was found stiff, his hands clenched, and pressed against his breast.
His skin, nearly black, his matted hair and bristly beard, were signs of a long
protracted misery. It was whispered that he had died of the plague. No one
ventured on board the vessel, and strange sights were averred to be seen at
night, walking the deck, and hanging on the masts and shrouds. She soon went to
pieces; I was shewn where she had been, and saw her disjoined timbers tossed on
the waves. The body of the man who had landed, had been buried deep in the
sands; and none could tell more, than that the vessel was American built, and
that several months before the Fortunatas had sailed from Philadelphia, of
which no tidings were afterwards received.

CHAPTER IV.

I returned to my family estate in the autumn of the year 2092. My heart had
long been with them; and I felt sick with the hope and delight of seeing them
again. The district which contained them appeared the abode of every kindly
spirit. Happiness, love and peace, walked the forest paths, and tempered the
atmosphere. After all the agitation and sorrow I had endured in Greece, I
sought Windsor, as the storm-driven bird does the nest in which it may fold its
wings in tranquillity.

How unwise had the wanderers been, who had deserted its shelter, entangled
themselves in the web of society, and entered on what men of the world call
“life,”—that labyrinth of evil, that scheme of mutual
torture. To live, according to this sense of the word, we must not only observe
and learn, we must also feel; we must not be mere spectators of action, we must
act; we must not describe, but be subjects of description. Deep sorrow must
have been the inmate of our bosoms; fraud must have lain in wait for us; the
artful must have deceived us; sickening doubt and false hope must have
chequered our days; hilarity and joy, that lap the soul in ecstasy, must at
times have possessed us. Who that knows what “life” is, would pine
for this feverish species of existence? I have lived. I have spent days and
nights of festivity; I have joined in ambitious hopes, and exulted in victory:
now,—shut the door on the world, and build high the wall that is to
separate me from the troubled scene enacted within its precincts. Let us live
for each other and for happiness; let us seek peace in our dear home, near the
inland murmur of streams, and the gracious waving of trees, the beauteous
vesture of earth, and sublime pageantry of the skies. Let us leave
“life,” that we may live.

Idris was well content with this resolve of mine. Her native sprightliness
needed no undue excitement, and her placid heart reposed contented on my love,
the well-being of her children, and the beauty of surrounding nature. Her pride
and blameless ambition was to create smiles in all around her, and to shed
repose on the fragile existence of her brother. In spite of her tender nursing,
the health of Adrian perceptibly declined. Walking, riding, the common
occupations of life, overcame him: he felt no pain, but seemed to tremble for
ever on the verge of annihilation. Yet, as he had lived on for months nearly in
the same state, he did not inspire us with any immediate fear; and, though he
talked of death as an event most familiar to his thoughts, he did not cease to
exert himself to render others happy, or to cultivate his own astonishing
powers of mind. Winter passed away; and spring, led by the months, awakened
life in all nature. The forest was dressed in green; the young calves frisked
on the new-sprung grass; the wind-winged shadows of light clouds sped over the
green cornfields; the hermit cuckoo repeated his monotonous all-hail to the
season; the nightingale, bird of love and minion of the evening star, filled
the woods with song; while Venus lingered in the warm sunset, and the young
green of the trees lay in gentle relief along the clear horizon.

Delight awoke in every heart, delight and exultation; for there was peace
through all the world; the temple of Universal Janus was shut, and man died not
that year by the hand of man.

“Let this last but twelve months,” said Adrian; “and earth
will become a Paradise. The energies of man were before directed to the
destruction of his species: they now aim at its liberation and preservation.
Man cannot repose, and his restless aspirations will now bring forth good
instead of evil. The favoured countries of the south will throw off the iron
yoke of servitude; poverty will quit us, and with that, sickness. What may not
the forces, never before united, of liberty and peace achieve in this dwelling
of man?”

“Dreaming, for ever dreaming, Windsor!” said Ryland, the old
adversary of Raymond, and candidate for the Protectorate at the ensuing
election. “Be assured that earth is not, nor ever can be heaven, while
the seeds of hell are natives of her soil. When the seasons have become equal,
when the air breeds no disorders, when its surface is no longer liable to
blights and droughts, then sickness will cease; when men’s passions are
dead, poverty will depart. When love is no longer akin to hate, then
brotherhood will exist: we are very far from that state at present.”

“Not so far as you may suppose,” observed a little old astronomer,
by name Merrival, “the poles precede slowly, but securely; in an hundred
thousand years—”

“We shall all be underground,” said Ryland.

“The pole of the earth will coincide with the pole of the
ecliptic,” continued the astronomer, “an universal spring will be
produced, and earth become a paradise.”

“And we shall of course enjoy the benefit of the change,” said
Ryland, contemptuously.

“We have strange news here,” I observed. I had the newspaper in my
hand, and, as usual, had turned to the intelligence from Greece. “It
seems that the total destruction of Constantinople, and the supposition that
winter had purified the air of the fallen city, gave the Greeks courage to
visit its site, and begin to rebuild it. But they tell us that the curse of God
is on the place, for every one who has ventured within the walls has been
tainted by the plague; that this disease has spread in Thrace and Macedonia;
and now, fearing the virulence of infection during the coming heats, a cordon
has been drawn on the frontiers of Thessaly, and a strict quarantine
exacted.” This intelligence brought us back from the prospect of
paradise, held out after the lapse of an hundred thousand years, to the pain
and misery at present existent upon earth. We talked of the ravages made last
year by pestilence in every quarter of the world; and of the dreadful
consequences of a second visitation. We discussed the best means of preventing
infection, and of preserving health and activity in a large city thus
afflicted—London, for instance. Merrival did not join in this
conversation; drawing near Idris, he proceeded to assure her that the joyful
prospect of an earthly paradise after an hundred thousand years, was clouded to
him by the knowledge that in a certain period of time after, an earthly hell or
purgatory, would occur, when the ecliptic and equator would be at right
angles.^[4] Our party at length
broke up; “We are all dreaming this morning,” said Ryland,
“it is as wise to discuss the probability of a visitation of the plague
in our well-governed metropolis, as to calculate the centuries which must
escape before we can grow pine-apples here in the open air.”

But, though it seemed absurd to calculate upon the arrival of the plague in
London, I could not reflect without extreme pain on the desolation this evil
would cause in Greece. The English for the most part talked of Thrace and
Macedonia, as they would of a lunar territory, which, unknown to them,
presented no distinct idea or interest to the minds. I had trod the soil. The
faces of many of the inhabitants were familiar to me; in the towns, plains,
hills, and defiles of these countries, I had enjoyed unspeakable delight, as I
journied through them the year before. Some romantic village, some cottage, or
elegant abode there situated, inhabited by the lovely and the good, rose before
my mental sight, and the question haunted me, is the plague there
also?—That same invincible monster, which hovered over and devoured
Constantinople—that fiend more cruel than tempest, less tame than fire,
is, alas, unchained in that beautiful country—these reflections would not
allow me to rest.

The political state of England became agitated as the time drew near when the
new Protector was to be elected. This event excited the more interest, since it
was the current report, that if the popular candidate (Ryland) should be
chosen, the question of the abolition of hereditary rank, and other feudal
relics, would come under the consideration of parliament. Not a word had been
spoken during the present session on any of these topics. Every thing would
depend upon the choice of a Protector, and the elections of the ensuing year.
Yet this very silence was awful, shewing the deep weight attributed to the
question; the fear of either party to hazard an ill-timed attack, and the
expectation of a furious contention when it should begin.

But although St. Stephen’s did not echo with the voice which filled each
heart, the newspapers teemed with nothing else; and in private companies the
conversation however remotely begun, soon verged towards this central point,
while voices were lowered and chairs drawn closer. The nobles did not hesitate
to express their fear; the other party endeavoured to treat the matter lightly.
“Shame on the country,” said Ryland, “to lay so much stress
upon words and frippery; it is a question of nothing; of the new painting of
carriage-pannels and the embroidery of footmen’s coats.”

Yet could England indeed doff her lordly trappings, and be content with the
democratic style of America? Were the pride of ancestry, the patrician spirit,
the gentle courtesies and refined pursuits, splendid attributes of rank, to be
erased among us? We were told that this would not be the case; that we were by
nature a poetical people, a nation easily duped by words, ready to array clouds
in splendour, and bestow honour on the dust. This spirit we could never lose;
and it was to diffuse this concentrated spirit of birth, that the new law was
to be brought forward. We were assured that, when the name and title of
Englishman was the sole patent of nobility, we should all be noble; that when
no man born under English sway, felt another his superior in rank, courtesy and
refinement would become the birth-right of all our countrymen. Let not England
be so far disgraced, as to have it imagined that it can be without nobles,
nature’s true nobility, who bear their patent in their mien, who are from
their cradle elevated above the rest of their species, because they are better
than the rest. Among a race of independent, and generous, and well educated
men, in a country where the imagination is empress of men’s minds, there
needs be no fear that we should want a perpetual succession of the high-born
and lordly. That party, however, could hardly yet be considered a minority in
the kingdom, who extolled the ornament of the column, “the Corinthian
capital of polished society;” they appealed to prejudices without number,
to old attachments and young hopes; to the expectation of thousands who might
one day become peers; they set up as a scarecrow, the spectre of all that was
sordid, mechanic and base in the commercial republics.

The plague had come to Athens. Hundreds of English residents returned to their
own country. Raymond’s beloved Athenians, the free, the noble people of
the divinest town in Greece, fell like ripe corn before the merciless sickle of
the adversary. Its pleasant places were deserted; its temples and palaces were
converted into tombs; its energies, bent before towards the highest objects of
human ambition, were now forced to converge to one point, the guarding against
the innumerous arrows of the plague.

At any other time this disaster would have excited extreme compassion among us;
but it was now passed over, while each mind was engaged by the coming
controversy. It was not so with me; and the question of rank and right dwindled
to insignificance in my eyes, when I pictured the scene of suffering Athens. I
heard of the death of only sons; of wives and husbands most devoted; of the
rending of ties twisted with the heart’s fibres, of friend losing friend,
and young mothers mourning for their first born; and these moving incidents
were grouped and painted in my mind by the knowledge of the persons, by my
esteem and affection for the sufferers. It was the admirers, friends, fellow
soldiers of Raymond, families that had welcomed Perdita to Greece, and lamented
with her the loss of her lord, that were swept away, and went to dwell with
them in the undistinguishing tomb.

The plague at Athens had been preceded and caused by the contagion from the
East; and the scene of havoc and death continued to be acted there, on a scale
of fearful magnitude. A hope that the visitation of the 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, destroying
their benignant influence. The wind, prince of air, raged through his kingdom,
lashing the sea into fury, and subduing the rebel earth into some sort of
obedience.

The God sends down his angry plagues from high,
Famine and pestilence in heaps they die.
Again in vengeance of his wrath he falls
On their great hosts, and breaks their tottering walls;
Arrests their navies on the ocean’s plain,
And whelms their strength with mountains of the main.^[6]

Their deadly power shook the flourishing countries of the south, and during
winter, even, we, in our northern retreat, began to quake under their ill
effects.

That fable is unjust, which gives the superiority to the sun over the wind. Who
has not seen the lightsome earth, the balmy atmosphere, and basking nature
become dark, cold and ungenial, when the sleeping wind has awoke in the east?
Or, when the dun clouds thickly veil the sky, while exhaustless stores of rain
are poured down, until, the dank earth refusing to imbibe the superabundant
moisture, it lies in pools on the surface; when the torch of day seems like a
meteor, to be quenched; who has not seen the cloud-stirring north arise, the
streaked blue appear, and soon an opening made in the vapours in the eye of the
wind, through which the bright azure shines? The clouds become thin; an arch is
formed for ever rising upwards, till, the universal cope being unveiled, the
sun pours forth its rays, re-animated and fed by the breeze.

Then mighty art thou, O wind, to be throned above all other vicegerents of
nature’s power; whether thou comest destroying from the east, or pregnant
with elementary life from the west; thee the clouds obey; the sun is
subservient to thee; the shoreless ocean is thy slave! Thou sweepest over the
earth, and oaks, the growth of centuries, submit to thy viewless axe; the
snow-drift is scattered on the pinnacles of the Alps, the avalanche thunders
down their vallies. Thou holdest the keys of the frost, and canst first chain
and then set free the streams; under thy gentle governance the buds and leaves
are born, they flourish nursed by thee.

Why dost thou howl thus, O wind? By day and by night for four long months thy
roarings have not ceased—the shores of the sea are strewn with wrecks,
its keel-welcoming surface has become impassable, the earth has shed her beauty
in obedience to thy command; the frail balloon dares no longer sail on the
agitated air; thy ministers, the clouds, deluge the land with rain; rivers
forsake their banks; the wild torrent tears up the mountain path; plain and
wood, and verdant dell are despoiled of their loveliness; our very cities are
wasted by thee. Alas, what will become of us? It seems as if the giant waves of
ocean, and vast arms of the sea, were about to wrench the deep-rooted island
from its centre; and cast it, a ruin and a wreck, upon the fields of the
Atlantic.

What are we, the inhabitants of this globe, least among the many that people
infinite space? Our minds embrace infinity; the visible mechanism of our being
is subject to merest accident. Day by day we are forced to believe this. He
whom a scratch has disorganized, he who disappears from apparent life under the
influence of the hostile agency at work around us, had the same powers as
I—I also am subject to the same laws. In the face of all this we call
ourselves lords of the creation, wielders of the elements, masters of life and
death, and we allege in excuse of this arrogance, that though the individual is
destroyed, man continues for ever.

Thus, losing our identity, that of which we are chiefly conscious, we glory in
the continuity of our species, and learn to regard death without terror. But
when any whole nation becomes the victim of the destructive powers of exterior
agents, then indeed man shrinks into insignificance, he feels his tenure of
life insecure, his inheritance on earth cut off.

I remember, after having witnessed the destructive effects of a fire, I could
not even behold a small one in a stove, without a sensation of fear. The
mounting flames had curled round the building, as it fell, and was destroyed.
They insinuated themselves into the substances about them, and the impediments
to their progress yielded at their touch. Could we take integral parts of this
power, and not be subject to its operation? Could we domesticate a cub of this
wild beast, and not fear its growth and maturity?

Thus we began to feel, with regard to many-visaged death let loose on the
chosen districts of our fair habitation, and above all, with regard to the
plague. We feared the coming summer. Nations, bordering on the already infected
countries, began to enter upon serious plans for the better keeping out of the
enemy. We, a commercial people, were obliged to bring such schemes under
consideration; and the question of contagion became matter of earnest
disquisition.

That the plague was not what is commonly called contagious, like the scarlet
fever, or extinct small-pox, was proved. It was called an epidemic. But the
grand question was still unsettled of how this epidemic was generated and
increased. If infection depended upon the air, the air was subject to
infection. As for instance, a typhus fever has been brought by ships to one
sea-port town; yet the very people who brought it there, were incapable of
communicating it in a town more fortunately situated. But how are we to judge
of airs, and pronounce—in such a city plague will die unproductive; in
such another, nature has provided for it a plentiful harvest? In the same way,
individuals may escape ninety-nine times, and receive the death-blow at the
hundredth; because bodies are sometimes in a state to reject the infection of
malady, and at others, thirsty to imbibe it. These reflections made our
legislators pause, before they could decide on the laws to be put in force. The
evil was so wide-spreading, so violent and immedicable, that no care, no
prevention could be judged superfluous, which even added a chance to our
escape.

These were questions of prudence; there was no immediate necessity for an
earnest caution. England was still secure. France, Germany, Italy and Spain,
were interposed, walls yet without a breach, between us and the plague. Our
vessels truly were the sport of winds and waves, even as Gulliver was the toy
of the Brobdignagians; but we on our stable abode could not be hurt in life or
limb by these eruptions of nature. We could not fear—we did not. Yet a
feeling of awe, a breathless sentiment of wonder, a painful sense of the
degradation of humanity, was introduced into every heart. Nature, our mother,
and our friend, had turned on us a brow of menace. She shewed us plainly, that,
though she permitted us to assign her laws and subdue her apparent powers, yet,
if she put forth but a finger, we must quake. She could take our globe, fringed
with mountains, girded by the atmosphere, containing the condition of our
being, and all that man’s mind could invent or his force achieve; she
could take the ball in her hand, and cast it into space, where life would be
drunk up, and man and all his efforts for ever annihilated.

These speculations were rife among us; yet not the less we proceeded in our
daily occupations, and our plans, whose accomplishment demanded the lapse of
many years. No voice was heard telling us to hold! When foreign distresses came
to be felt by us through the channels of commerce, we set ourselves to apply
remedies. Subscriptions were made for the emigrants, and merchants bankrupt by
the failure of trade. The English spirit awoke to its full activity, and, as it
had ever done, set itself to resist the evil, and to stand in the breach which
diseased nature had suffered chaos and death to make in the bounds and banks
which had hitherto kept them out.

At the commencement of summer, we began to feel, that the mischief which had
taken place in distant countries was greater than we had at first suspected.
Quito was destroyed by an earthquake. Mexico laid waste by the united effects
of storm, pestilence and famine. Crowds of emigrants inundated the west of
Europe; and our island had become the refuge of thousands. In the mean time
Ryland had been chosen Protector. He had sought this office with eagerness,
under the idea of turning his whole forces to the suppression of the privileged
orders of our community. His measures were thwarted, and his schemes
interrupted by this new state of things. Many of the foreigners were utterly
destitute; and their increasing numbers at length forbade a recourse to the
usual modes of relief. Trade was stopped by the failure of the interchange of
cargoes usual between us, and America, India, Egypt and Greece. A sudden break
was made in the routine of our lives. In vain our Protector and his partizans
sought to conceal this truth; in vain, day after day, he appointed a period for
the discussion of the new laws concerning hereditary rank and privilege; in
vain he endeavoured to represent the evil as partial and temporary. These
disasters came home to so many bosoms, and, through the various channels of
commerce, were carried so entirely into every class and division of the
community, that of necessity they became the first question in the state, the
chief subjects to which we must turn our attention.

Can it be true, each asked the other with wonder and dismay, that whole
countries are laid waste, whole nations annihilated, by these disorders in
nature? The vast cities of America, the fertile plains of Hindostan, the
crowded abodes of the Chinese, are menaced with utter ruin. Where late the busy
multitudes assembled for pleasure or profit, now only the sound of wailing and
misery is heard. The air is empoisoned, and each human being inhales death,
even while in youth and health, their hopes are in the flower. We called to
mind the plague of 1348, when it was calculated that a third of mankind had
been destroyed. As yet western Europe was uninfected; would it always be so?

O, yes, it would—Countrymen, fear not! In the still uncultivated wilds of
America, what wonder that among its other giant destroyers, plague should be
numbered! It is of old a native of the East, sister of the tornado, the
earthquake, and the simoon. Child of the sun, and nursling of the tropics, it
would expire in these climes. It drinks the dark blood of the inhabitant of the
south, but it never feasts on the pale-faced Celt. If perchance some stricken
Asiatic come among us, plague dies with him, uncommunicated and innoxious. Let
us weep for our brethren, though we can never experience their reverse. Let us
lament over and assist the children of the garden of the earth. Late we envied
their abodes, their spicy groves, fertile plains, and abundant loveliness. But
in this mortal life extremes are always matched; the thorn grows with the rose,
the poison tree and the cinnamon mingle their boughs. Persia, with its cloth of
gold, marble halls, and infinite wealth, is now a tomb. The tent of the Arab is
fallen in the sands, and his horse spurns the ground unbridled and unsaddled.
The voice of lamentation fills the valley of Cashmere; its dells and woods, its
cool fountains, and gardens of roses, are polluted by the dead; in Circassia
and Georgia the spirit of beauty weeps over the ruin of its favourite
temple—the form of woman.

Our own distresses, though they were occasioned by the fictitious reciprocity
of commerce, encreased in due proportion. Bankers, merchants, and
manufacturers, whose trade depended on exports and interchange of wealth,
became bankrupt. Such things, when they happen singly, affect only the
immediate parties; but the prosperity of the nation was now shaken by frequent
and extensive losses. Families, bred in opulence and luxury, were reduced to
beggary. The very state of peace in which we gloried was injurious; there were
no means of employing the idle, or of sending any overplus of population out of
the country. Even the source of colonies was dried up, for in New Holland, Van
Diemen’s Land, and the Cape of Good Hope, plague raged. O, for some
medicinal vial to purge unwholesome nature, and bring back the earth to its
accustomed health!

Ryland was a man of strong intellects and quick and sound decision in the usual
course of things, but he stood aghast at the multitude of evils that gathered
round us. Must he tax the landed interest to assist our commercial population?
To do this, he must gain the favour of the chief land-holders, the nobility of
the country; and these were his vowed enemies—he must conciliate them by
abandoning his favourite scheme of equalization; he must confirm them in their
manorial rights; he must sell his cherished plans for the permanent good of his
country, for temporary relief. He must aim no more at the dear object of his
ambition; throwing his arms aside, he must for present ends give up the
ultimate object of his endeavours. He came to Windsor to consult with us. Every
day added to his difficulties; the arrival of fresh vessels with emigrants, the
total cessation of commerce, the starving multitude that thronged around the
palace of the Protectorate, were circumstances not to be tampered with. The
blow was struck; the aristocracy obtained all they wished, and they subscribed
to a twelvemonths’ bill, which levied twenty per cent on all the
rent-rolls of the country. Calm was now restored to the metropolis, and to the
populous cities, before driven to desperation; and we returned to the
consideration of distant calamities, wondering if the future would bring any
alleviation to their excess. It was August; so there could be small hope of
relief during the heats. On the contrary, the disease gained virulence, while
starvation did its accustomed work. Thousands died unlamented; for beside the
yet warm corpse the mourner was stretched, made mute by death.

On the eighteenth of this month news arrived in London that the plague was in
France and Italy. These tidings were at first whispered about town; but no one
dared express aloud the soul-quailing intelligence. When any one met a friend
in the street, he only cried as he hurried on, “You know!”—
while the other, with an ejaculation of fear and horror, would answer,—
“What will become of us?” At length it was mentioned in the
newspapers. The paragraph was inserted in an obscure part: “We regret to
state that there can be no longer a doubt of the plague having been introduced
at Leghorn, Genoa, and Marseilles.” No word of comment followed; each
reader made his own fearful one. We were as a man who hears that his house is
burning, and yet hurries through the streets, borne along by a lurking hope of
a mistake, till he turns the corner, and sees his sheltering roof enveloped in
a flame. Before it had been a rumour; but now in words uneraseable, in definite
and undeniable print, the knowledge went forth. Its obscurity of situation
rendered it the more conspicuous: the diminutive letters grew gigantic to the
bewildered eye of fear: they seemed graven with a pen of iron, impressed by
fire, woven in the clouds, stamped on the very front of the universe.

The English, whether travellers or residents, came pouring in one great
revulsive stream, back on their own country; and with them crowds of Italians
and Spaniards. Our little island was filled even to bursting. At first an
unusual quantity of specie made its appearance with the emigrants; but these
people had no means of receiving back into their hands what they spent among
us. With the advance of summer, and the increase of the distemper, rents were
unpaid, and their remittances failed them. It was impossible to see these
crowds of wretched, perishing creatures, late nurslings of luxury, and not
stretch out a hand to save them. As at the conclusion of the eighteenth
century, the English unlocked their hospitable store, for the relief of those
driven from their homes by political revolution; so now they were not backward
in affording aid to the victims of a more wide-spreading calamity. We had many
foreign friends whom we eagerly sought out, and relieved from dreadful penury.
Our Castle became an asylum for the unhappy. A little population occupied its
halls. The revenue of its possessor, which had always found a mode of
expenditure congenial to his generous nature, was now attended to more
parsimoniously, that it might embrace a wider portion of utility. It was not
however money, except partially, but the necessaries of life, that became
scarce. It was difficult to find an immediate remedy. The usual one of imports
was entirely cut off. In this emergency, to feed the very people to whom we had
given refuge, we were obliged to yield to the plough and the mattock our
pleasure-grounds and parks. Live stock diminished sensibly in the country, from
the effects of the great demand in the market. Even the poor deer, our antlered
proteges, were obliged to fall for the sake of worthier pensioners. The labour
necessary to bring the lands to this sort of culture, employed and fed the
offcasts of the diminished manufactories.

Adrian did not rest only with the exertions he could make with regard to his
own possessions. He addressed himself to the wealthy of the land; he made
proposals in parliament little adapted to please the rich; but his earnest
pleadings and benevolent eloquence were irresistible. To give up their
pleasure-grounds to the agriculturist, to diminish sensibly the number of
horses kept for the purposes of luxury throughout the country, were means
obvious, but unpleasing. Yet, to the honour of the English be it recorded,
that, although natural disinclination made them delay awhile, yet when the
misery of their fellow-creatures became glaring, an enthusiastic generosity
inspired their decrees. The most luxurious were often the first to part with
their indulgencies. As is common in communities, a fashion was set. The
high-born ladies of the country would have deemed themselves disgraced if they
had now enjoyed, what they before called a necessary, the ease of a carriage.
Chairs, as in olden time, and Indian palanquins were introduced for the infirm;
but else it was nothing singular to see females of rank going on foot to places
of fashionable resort. It was more common, for all who possessed landed
property to secede to their estates, attended by whole troops of the indigent,
to cut down their woods to erect temporary dwellings, and to portion out their
parks, parterres and flower-gardens, to necessitous families. Many of these, of
high rank in their own countries, now, with hoe in hand, turned up the soil. It
was found necessary at last to check the spirit of sacrifice, and to remind
those whose generosity proceeded to lavish waste, that, until the present state
of things became permanent, of which there was no likelihood, it was wrong to
carry change so far as to make a reaction difficult. Experience demonstrated
that in a year or two pestilence would cease; it were well that in the mean
time we should not have destroyed our fine breeds of horses, or have utterly
changed the face of the ornamented portion of the country.

It may be imagined that things were in a bad state indeed, before this spirit
of benevolence could have struck such deep roots. The infection had now spread
in the southern provinces of France. But that country had so many resources in
the way of agriculture, that the rush of population from one part of it to
another, and its increase through foreign emigration, was less felt than with
us. The panic struck appeared of more injury, than disease and its natural
concomitants.

Winter was hailed, a general and never-failing physician. The embrowning woods,
and swollen rivers, the evening mists, and morning frosts, were welcomed with
gratitude. The effects of purifying cold were immediately felt; and the lists
of mortality abroad were curtailed each week. Many of our visitors left us:
those whose homes were far in the south, fled delightedly from our northern
winter, and sought their native land, secure of plenty even after their fearful
visitation. We breathed again. What the coming summer would bring, we knew not;
but the present months were our own, and our hopes of a cessation of pestilence
were high.

[6]Elton’s translation of Hesiod’s Works.

CHAPTER VI.

I have lingered thus long on the extreme bank, the wasting shoal that stretched
into the stream of life, dallying with the shadow of death. Thus long, I have
cradled my heart in retrospection of past happiness, when hope was. Why not for
ever thus? I am not immortal; and the thread of my history might be spun out to
the limits of my existence. But the same sentiment that first led me to
pourtray scenes replete with tender recollections, now bids me hurry on. The
same yearning of this warm, panting heart, that has made me in written words
record my vagabond youth, my serene manhood, and the passions of my soul, makes
me now recoil from further delay. I must complete my work.

Here then I stand, as I said, beside the fleet waters of the flowing years, and
now away! Spread the sail, and strain with oar, hurrying by dark impending
crags, adown steep rapids, even to the sea of desolation I have reached. Yet
one moment, one brief interval before I put from shore— once, once again
let me fancy myself as I was in 2094 in my abode at Windsor, let me close my
eyes, and imagine that the immeasurable boughs of its oaks still shadow me, its
castle walls anear. Let fancy pourtray the joyous scene of the twentieth of
June, such as even now my aching heart recalls it.

Circumstances had called me to London; here I heard talk that symptoms of the
plague had occurred in hospitals of that city. I returned to Windsor; my brow
was clouded, my heart heavy; I entered the Little Park, as was my custom, at
the Frogmore gate, on my way to the Castle. A great part of these grounds had
been given to cultivation, and strips of potatoe-land and corn were scattered
here and there. The rooks cawed loudly in the trees above; mixed with their
hoarse cries I heard a lively strain of music. It was Alfred’s birthday.
The young people, the Etonians, and children of the neighbouring gentry, held a
mock fair, to which all the country people were invited. The park was speckled
by tents, whose flaunting colours and gaudy flags, waving in the sunshine,
added to the gaiety of the scene. On a platform erected beneath the terrace, a
number of the younger part of the assembly were dancing. I leaned against a
tree to observe them. The band played the wild eastern air of Weber introduced
in Abon Hassan; its volatile notes gave wings to the feet of the dancers, while
the lookers-on unconsciously beat time. At first the tripping measure lifted my
spirit with it, and for a moment my eyes gladly followed the mazes of the
dance. The revulsion of thought passed like keen steel to my heart. Ye are all
going to die, I thought; already your tomb is built up around you. Awhile,
because you are gifted with agility and strength, you fancy that you live: but
frail is the “bower of flesh” that encaskets life; dissoluble the
silver cord that binds you to it. The joyous soul, charioted from pleasure to
pleasure by the graceful mechanism of well-formed limbs, will suddenly feel the
axle-tree give way, and spring and wheel dissolve in dust. Not one of you, O!
fated crowd, can escape—not one! not my own ones! not my Idris and her
babes! Horror and misery! Already the gay dance vanished, the green sward was
strewn with corpses, the 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 present extent of
disease in the metropolis. I encouraged them with such thoughts of cheer as
presented themselves. I told them exceedingly few deaths had yet been
occasioned by pestilence, and gave them hopes, as we were the last visited, so
the calamity might have lost its most venomous power before it had reached us.
The cleanliness, habits of order, and the manner in which our cities were
built, were all in our favour. As it was an epidemic, its chief force was
derived from pernicious qualities in the air, and it would probably do little
harm where this was naturally salubrious. At first, I had spoken only to those
nearest me; but the whole assembly gathered about me, and I found that I was
listened to by all. “My friends,” I said, “our risk is
common; our precautions and exertions shall be common also. If manly courage
and resistance can save us, we will be saved. We will fight the enemy to the
last. Plague shall not find us a ready prey; we will dispute every inch of
ground; and, by methodical and inflexible laws, pile invincible barriers to the
progress of our foe. Perhaps in no part of the world has she met with so
systematic and determined an opposition. Perhaps no country is naturally so
well protected against our invader; nor has nature anywhere been so well
assisted by the hand of man. We will not despair. We are neither cowards nor
fatalists; but, believing that God has placed the means for our preservation in
our own hands, we will use those means to our utmost. Remember that
cleanliness, sobriety, and even good-humour and benevolence, are our best
medicines.”

There was little I could add to this general exhortation; for the plague,
though in London, was not among us. I dismissed the guests therefore; and they
went thoughtful, more than sad, to await the events in store for them.

I now sought Adrian, anxious to hear the result of his discussion with Ryland.
He had in part prevailed; the Lord Protector consented to return to London for
a few weeks; during which time things should be so arranged, as to occasion
less consternation at his departure. Adrian and Idris were together. The
sadness with which the former had first heard that the plague was in London had
vanished; the energy of his purpose informed his body with strength, the solemn
joy of enthusiasm and self-devotion illuminated his countenance; and the
weakness of his physical nature seemed to pass from him, as the cloud of
humanity did, in the ancient fable, from the divine lover of Semele. He was
endeavouring to encourage his sister, and to bring her to look on his intent in
a less tragic light than she was prepared to do; and with passionate eloquence
he unfolded his designs to her.

“Let me, at the first word,” he said, “relieve your mind from
all fear on my account. I will not task myself beyond my powers, nor will I
needlessly seek danger. I feel that I know what ought to be done, and as my
presence is necessary for the accomplishment of my plans, I will take especial
care to preserve my life.

“I am now going to undertake an office fitted for me. I cannot intrigue,
or work a tortuous path through the labyrinth of men’s vices and
passions; but I can bring patience, and sympathy, and such aid as art affords,
to the bed of disease; I can raise from earth the miserable orphan, and awaken
to new hopes the shut heart of the mourner. I can enchain the plague in limits,
and set a term to the misery it would occasion; courage, forbearance, and
watchfulness, are the forces I bring towards this great work.

“O, I shall be something now! From my birth I have aspired like the eagle
—but, unlike the eagle, my wings have failed, and my vision has been
blinded. Disappointment and sickness have hitherto held dominion over me; twin
born with me, my would, was for ever enchained by the shall not,
of these my tyrants. A shepherd-boy that tends a silly flock on the mountains,
was more in the scale of society than I. Congratulate me then that I have found
fitting scope for my powers. I have often thought of offering my services to
the pestilence-stricken towns of France and Italy; but fear of paining you, and
expectation of this catastrophe, withheld me. To England and to Englishmen I
dedicate myself. If I can save one of her mighty spirits from the deadly shaft;
if I can ward disease from one of her smiling cottages, I shall not have lived
in vain.”

Strange ambition this! Yet such was Adrian. He appeared given up to
contemplation, averse to excitement, a lowly student, a man of visions—
but afford him worthy theme, and—

Like to the lark at break of day arising,
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate.^[7]

so did he spring up from listlessness and unproductive thought, to the highest
pitch of virtuous action.

With him went enthusiasm, the high-wrought resolve, the eye that without
blenching could look at death. With us remained sorrow, anxiety, and
unendurable expectation of evil. The man, says Lord Bacon, who hath wife and
children, has given hostages to fortune. Vain was all philosophical
reasoning—vain all fortitude—vain, vain, a reliance on probable
good. I might heap high the scale with logic, courage, and
resignation—but let one fear for Idris and our children enter the
opposite one, and, over-weighed, it kicked the beam.

The plague was in London! Fools that we were not long ago to have foreseen
this. We wept over the ruin of the boundless continents of the east, and the
desolation of the western world; while we fancied that the little channel
between our island and the rest of the earth was to preserve us alive among the
dead. It were no mighty leap methinks from Calais to Dover. The eye easily
discerns the sister land; they were united once; and the little path that runs
between looks in a map but as a trodden footway through high grass. Yet this
small interval was to save us: the sea was to rise a wall of
adamant—without, disease and misery—within, a shelter from evil, a
nook of the garden of paradise—a particle of celestial soil, which no
evil could invade—truly we were wise in our generation, to imagine all
these things!

But we are awake now. The plague is in London; the air of England is tainted,
and her sons and daughters strew the unwholesome earth. And now, the sea, late
our defence, seems our prison bound; hemmed in by its gulphs, we shall die like
the famished inhabitants of a besieged town. Other nations have a fellowship in
death; but we, shut out from all neighbourhood, must bury our own dead, and
little England become a wide, wide tomb.

This feeling of universal misery assumed concentration and shape, when I looked
on my wife and children; and the thought of danger to them possessed my whole
being with fear. How could I save them? I revolved a thousand and a thousand
plans. They should not die—first I would be gathered to nothingness, ere
infection should come anear these idols of my soul. I would walk barefoot
through the world, to find an uninfected spot; I would build my home on some
wave-tossed plank, drifted about on the barren, shoreless ocean. I would betake
me with them to some wild beast’s den, where a tyger’s cubs, which
I would slay, had been reared in health. I would seek the mountain
eagle’s eirie, and live years suspended in some inaccessible recess of a
sea-bounding cliff—no labour too great, no scheme too wild, if it
promised life to them. O! ye heart-strings of mine, could ye be torn asunder,
and my soul not spend itself in tears of blood for sorrow!

Idris, after the first shock, regained a portion of fortitude. She studiously
shut out all prospect of the future, and cradled her heart in present
blessings. She never for a moment lost sight of her children. But while they in
health sported about her, she could cherish contentment and hope. A strange and
wild restlessness came over me—the more intolerable, because I was forced
to conceal it. My fears for Adrian were ceaseless; August had come; and the
symptoms of plague encreased rapidly in London. It was deserted by all who
possessed the power of removing; and he, the brother of my soul, was exposed to
the perils from which all but slaves enchained by circumstance fled. He
remained to combat the fiend—his side unguarded, his toils
unshared—infection might even reach him, and he die unattended and alone.
By day and night these thoughts pursued me. I resolved to visit London, to see
him; to quiet these agonizing throes by the sweet medicine of hope, or the
opiate of despair.

It was not until I arrived at Brentford, that I perceived much change in the
face of the country. The better sort of houses were shut up; the busy trade of
the town palsied; there was an air of anxiety among the few passengers I met,
and they looked wonderingly at my carriage—the first they had seen pass
towards London, since pestilence sat on its high places, and possessed its busy
streets. I met several funerals; they were slenderly attended by mourners, and
were regarded by the spectators as omens of direst import. Some gazed on these
processions with wild eagerness— others fled timidly—some wept
aloud.

Adrian’s chief endeavour, after the immediate succour of the sick, had
been to disguise the symptoms and progress of the plague from the inhabitants
of London. He knew that fear and melancholy forebodings were powerful
assistants to disease; that desponding and brooding care rendered the physical
nature of man peculiarly susceptible of infection. No unseemly sights were
therefore discernible: the shops were in general open, the concourse of
passengers in some degree kept up. But although the appearance of an infected
town was avoided, to me, who had not beheld it since the commencement of the
visitation, London appeared sufficiently changed. There were no carriages, and
grass had sprung high in the streets; the houses had a desolate look; most of
the shutters were closed; and there was a ghast and frightened stare in the
persons I met, very different from the usual business-like demeanour of the
Londoners. My solitary carriage attracted notice, as it rattled along towards
the Protectoral Palace—and the fashionable streets leading to it wore a
still more dreary and deserted appearance. I found Adrian’s anti-chamber
crowded—it was his hour for giving audience. I was unwilling to disturb
his labours, and waited, watching the ingress and egress of the petitioners.
They consisted of people of the middling and lower classes of society, whose
means of subsistence failed with the cessation of trade, and of the busy spirit
of money-making in all its branches, peculiar to our country. There was an air
of anxiety, sometimes of terror in the new-comers, strongly contrasted with the
resigned and even satisfied mien of those who had had audience. I could read
the influence of my friend in their quickened motions and cheerful faces. Two
o’clock struck, after which none were admitted; those who had been
disappointed went sullenly or sorrowfully away, while I entered the
audience-chamber.

I was struck by the improvement that appeared in the health of Adrian. He was
no longer bent to the ground, like an over-nursed flower of spring, that,
shooting up beyond its strength, is weighed down even by its own coronal of
blossoms. His eyes were bright, his countenance composed, an air of
concentrated energy was diffused over his whole person, much unlike its former
languor. He sat at a table with several secretaries, who were arranging
petitions, or registering the notes made during that day’s audience. Two
or three petitioners were still in attendance. I admired his justice and
patience. Those who possessed a power of living out of London, he advised
immediately to quit it, affording them the means of so doing. Others, whose
trade was beneficial to the city, or who possessed no other refuge, he provided
with advice for better avoiding the epidemic; relieving overloaded families,
supplying the gaps made in others by death. Order, comfort, and even health,
rose under his influence, as from the touch of a magician’s wand.

“I am glad you are come,” he said to me, when we were at last
alone; “I can only spare a few minutes, and must tell you much in that
time. The plague is now in progress—it is useless closing one’s
eyes to the fact—the deaths encrease each week. What will come I cannot
guess. As yet, thank God, I am equal to the government of the town; and I look
only to the present. Ryland, whom I have so long detained, has stipulated that
I shall suffer him to depart before the end of this month. The deputy appointed
by parliament is dead; another therefore must be named; I have advanced my
claim, and I believe that I shall have no competitor. To-night the question is
to be decided, as there is a call of the house for the purpose. You must
nominate me, Lionel; Ryland, for shame, cannot shew himself; but you, my
friend, will do me this service?”

How lovely is devotion! Here was a youth, royally sprung, bred in luxury, by
nature averse to the usual struggles of a public life, and now, in time of
danger, at a period when to live was the utmost scope of the ambitious, he, the
beloved and heroic Adrian, made, in sweet simplicity, an offer to sacrifice
himself for the public good. The very idea was generous and noble,—but,
beyond this, his unpretending manner, his entire want of the assumption of a
virtue, rendered his act ten times more touching. I would have withstood his
request; but I had seen the good he diffused; I felt that his resolves were not
to be shaken, so, with an heavy heart, I consented to do as he asked. He
grasped my hand affectionately:—“Thank you,” he said,
“you have relieved me from a painful dilemma, and are, as you ever were,
the best of my friends. Farewell—I must now leave you for a few hours. Go
you and converse with Ryland. Although he deserts his post in London, he may be
of the greatest service in the north of England, by receiving and assisting
travellers, and contributing to supply the metropolis with food. Awaken him, I
entreat you, to some sense of duty.”

Adrian left me, as I afterwards learnt, upon his daily task of visiting the
hospitals, and inspecting the crowded parts of London. I found Ryland much
altered, even from what he had been when he visited Windsor. Perpetual fear had
jaundiced his complexion, and shrivelled his whole person. I told him of the
business of the evening, and a smile relaxed the contracted muscles. He desired
to go; each day he expected to be infected by pestilence, each day he was
unable to resist the gentle violence of Adrian’s detention. The moment
Adrian should be legally elected his deputy, he would escape to safety. Under
this impression he listened to all I said; and, elevated almost to joy by the
near prospect of his departure, he entered into a discussion concerning the
plans he should adopt in his own county, forgetting, for the moment, his
cherished resolution of shutting himself up from all communication in the
mansion and grounds of his estate.

In the evening, Adrian and I proceeded to Westminster. As we went he reminded
me of what I was to say and do, yet, strange to say, I entered the chamber
without having once reflected on my purpose. Adrian remained in the
coffee-room, while I, in compliance with his desire, took my seat in St.
Stephen’s. There reigned unusual silence in the chamber. I had not
visited it since Raymond’s protectorate; a period conspicuous for a
numerous attendance of members, for the eloquence of the speakers, and the
warmth of the debate. The benches were very empty, those by custom occupied by
the hereditary members were vacant; the city members were there—the
members for the commercial towns, few landed proprietors, and not many of those
who entered parliament for the sake of a career. The first subject that
occupied the attention of the house was an address from the Lord Protector,
praying them to appoint a deputy during a necessary absence on his part.

A silence prevailed, till one of the members coming to me, whispered that the
Earl of Windsor had sent him word that I was to move his election, in the
absence of the person who had been first chosen for this office. Now for the
first time I saw the full extent of my task, and I was overwhelmed by what I
had brought on myself. Ryland had deserted his post through fear of the plague:
from the same fear Adrian had no competitor. And I, the nearest kinsman of the
Earl of Windsor, was to propose his election. I was to thrust this selected and
matchless friend into the post of danger— impossible! the die was
cast—I would offer myself as candidate.

The few members who were present, had come more for the sake of terminating the
business by securing a legal attendance, than under the idea of a debate. I had
risen mechanically—my knees trembled; irresolution hung on my voice, as I
uttered a few words on the necessity of choosing a person adequate to the
dangerous task in hand. But, when the idea of presenting myself in the room of
my friend intruded, the load of doubt and pain was taken from off me. My words
flowed spontaneously—my utterance was firm and quick. I adverted to what
Adrian had already done—I promised the same vigilance in furthering all
his views. I drew a touching picture of his vacillating health; I boasted of my
own strength. I prayed them to save even from himself this scion of the noblest
family in England. My alliance with him was the pledge of my sincerity, my
union with his sister, my children, his presumptive heirs, were the hostages of
my truth.

This unexpected turn in the debate was quickly communicated to Adrian. He
hurried in, and witnessed the termination of my impassioned harangue. I did not
see him: my soul was in my words,—my eyes could not perceive that which
was; while a vision of Adrian’s form, tainted by pestilence, and sinking
in death, floated before them. He seized my hand, as I concluded—
“Unkind!” he cried, “you have betrayed me!” then,
springing forwards, with the air of one who had a right to command, he claimed
the place of deputy as his own. He had bought it, he said, with danger, and
paid for it with toil. His ambition rested there; and, after an interval
devoted to the interests of his country, was I to step in, and reap the profit?
Let them remember what London had been when he arrived: the panic that
prevailed brought famine, while every moral and legal tie was loosened. He had
restored order—this had been a work which required perseverance,
patience, and energy; and he had neither slept nor waked but for the good of
his country.—Would they dare wrong him thus? Would they wrest his
hard-earned reward from him, to bestow it on one, who, never having mingled in
public life, would come a tyro to the craft, in which he was an adept. He
demanded the place of deputy as his right. Ryland had shewn that he preferred
him. Never before had he, who was born even to the inheritance of the throne of
England, never had he asked favour or honour from those now his equals, but who
might have been his subjects. Would they refuse him? Could they thrust back
from the path of distinction and laudable ambition, the heir of their ancient
kings, and heap another disappointment on a fallen house.

No one had ever before heard Adrian allude to the rights of his ancestors. None
had ever before suspected, that power, or the suffrage of the many, could in
any manner become dear to him. He had begun his speech with vehemence; he ended
with unassuming gentleness, making his appeal with the same humility, as if he
had asked to be the first in wealth, honour, and power among Englishmen, and
not, as was the truth, to be the foremost in the ranks of loathsome toils and
inevitable death. A murmur of approbation rose after his speech. “Oh, do
not listen to him,” I cried, “he speaks false—false to
himself,”—I was interrupted: and, silence being restored, we were
ordered, as was the custom, to retire during the decision of the house. I
fancied that they hesitated, and that there was some hope for me—I was
mistaken—hardly had we quitted the chamber, before Adrian was recalled,
and installed in his office of Lord Deputy to the Protector.

We returned together to the palace. “Why, Lionel,” said Adrian,
“what did you intend? you could not hope to conquer, and yet you gave me
the pain of a triumph over my dearest friend.”

“This is mockery,” I replied, “you devote
yourself,—you, the adored brother of Idris, the being, of all the world
contains, dearest to our hearts—you devote yourself to an early death. I
would have prevented this; my death would be a small evil—or rather I
should not die; while you cannot hope to escape.”

“As to the likelihood of escaping,” said Adrian, “ten years
hence the cold stars may shine on the graves of all of us; but as to my
peculiar liability to infection, I could easily prove, both logically and
physically, that in the midst of contagion I have a better chance of life than
you.

“This is my post: I was born for this—to rule England in anarchy,
to save her in danger—to devote myself for her. The blood of my
forefathers cries aloud in my veins, and bids me be first among my countrymen.
Or, if this mode of speech offend you, let me say, that my mother, the proud
queen, instilled early into me a love of distinction, and all that, if the
weakness of my physical nature and my peculiar opinions had not prevented such
a design, might have made me long since struggle for the lost inheritance of my
race. But now my mother, or, if you will, my mother’s lessons, awaken
within me. I cannot lead on to battle; I cannot, through intrigue and
faithlessness rear again the throne upon the wreck of English public spirit.
But I can be the first to support and guard my country, now that terrific
disasters and ruin have laid strong hands upon her.

“That country and my beloved sister are all I have. I will protect the
first—the latter I commit to your charge. If I survive, and she be lost,
I were far better dead. Preserve her—for her own sake I know that you
will—if you require any other spur, think that, in preserving her, you
preserve me. Her faultless nature, one sum of perfections, is wrapt up in her
affections—if they were hurt, she would droop like an unwatered floweret,
and the slightest injury they receive is a nipping frost to her. Already she
fears for us. She fears for the children she adores, and for you, the father of
these, her lover, husband, protector; and you must be near her to support and
encourage her. Return to Windsor then, my brother; for such you are by every
tie—fill the double place my absence imposes on you, and let me, in all
my sufferings here, turn my eyes towards that dear seclusion, and
say—There is peace.”

[7]
Shakespeare’s Sonnets.

CHAPTER VII.

I did proceed to Windsor, but not with the intention of remaining there. I went
but to obtain the consent of Idris, and then to return and take my station
beside my unequalled friend; to share his labours, and save him, if so it must
be, at the expence of my life. Yet I dreaded to witness the anguish which my
resolve might excite in Idris. I had vowed to my own heart never to shadow her
countenance even with transient grief, and should I prove recreant at the hour
of greatest need? I had begun my journey with anxious haste; now I desired to
draw it out through the course of days and months. I longed to avoid the
necessity of action; I strove to escape from
thought—vainly—futurity, like a dark image in a phantasmagoria,
came nearer and more near, till it clasped the whole earth in its shadow.

A slight circumstance induced me to alter my usual route, and to return home by
Egham and Bishopgate. I alighted at Perdita’s ancient abode, her cottage;
and, sending forward the carriage, determined to walk across the park to the
castle. This spot, dedicated to sweetest recollections, the deserted house and
neglected garden were well adapted to nurse my melancholy. In our happiest
days, Perdita had adorned her cottage with every aid art might bring, to that
which nature had selected to favour. In the same spirit of exaggeration she
had, on the event of her separation from Raymond, caused it to be entirely
neglected. It was now in ruin: the deer had climbed the broken palings, and
reposed among the flowers; grass grew on the threshold, and the swinging
lattice creaking to the wind, gave signal of utter desertion. The sky was blue
above, and the air impregnated with fragrance by the rare flowers that grew
among the weeds. The trees moved overhead, awakening nature’s favourite
melody—but the melancholy appearance of the choaked paths, and weed-grown
flower-beds, dimmed even this gay summer scene. The time when in proud and
happy security we assembled at this cottage, was gone—soon the present
hours would join those past, and shadows of future ones rose dark and menacing
from the womb of time, their cradle and their bier. For the first time in my
life I envied the sleep of the dead, and thought with pleasure of one’s
bed under the sod, where grief and fear have no power. I passed through the gap
of the broken paling—I felt, while I disdained, the choaking
tears—I rushed into the depths of the forest. O death and change, rulers
of our life, where are ye, that I may grapple with you! What was there in our
tranquillity, that excited your envy—in our happiness, that ye should
destroy it? We were happy, loving, and beloved; the horn of Amalthea contained
no blessing unshowered upon us, but, alas!

        la fortuna
deidad barbara importuna,
oy cadaver y ayer flor,
no permanece jamas!^[8]

As I wandered on thus ruminating, a number of country people passed me. They
seemed full of careful thought, and a few words of their conversation that
reached me, induced me to approach and make further enquiries. A party of
people flying from London, as was frequent in those days, had come up the
Thames in a boat. No one at Windsor would afford them shelter; so, going a
little further up, they remained all night in a deserted hut near
Bolter’s lock. They pursued their way the following morning, leaving one
of their company behind them, sick of the plague. This circumstance once spread
abroad, none dared approach within half a mile of the infected neighbourhood,
and the deserted wretch was left to fight with disease and death in solitude,
as he best might. I was urged by compassion to hasten to the hut, for the
purpose of ascertaining his situation, and administering to his wants.

As I advanced I met knots of country-people talking earnestly of this event:
distant as they were from the apprehended contagion, fear was impressed on
every countenance. I passed by a group of these terrorists, in a lane in the
direct road to the hut. One of them stopped me, and, conjecturing that I was
ignorant of the circumstance, told me not to go on, for that an infected person
lay but at a short distance.

“I know it,” I replied, “and I am going to see in what
condition the poor fellow is.”

A murmur of surprise and horror ran through the assembly. I
continued:—“This poor wretch is deserted, dying, succourless; in
these unhappy times, God knows how soon any or all of us may be in like want. I
am going to do, as I would be done by.”

“But you will never be able to return to the Castle—Lady
Idris—his children—” in confused speech were the words that
struck my ear.

“Do you not know, my friends,” I said, “that the Earl
himself, now Lord Protector, visits daily, not only those probably infected by
this disease, but the hospitals and pest houses, going near, and even touching
the sick? yet he was never in better health. You labour under an entire mistake
as to the nature of the plague; but do not fear, I do not ask any of you to
accompany me, nor to believe me, until I return safe and sound from my
patient.”

So I left them, and hurried on. I soon arrived at the hut: the door was ajar. I
entered, and one glance assured me that its former inhabitant was no
more—he lay on a heap of straw, cold and stiff; while a pernicious
effluvia filled the room, and various stains and marks served to shew the
virulence of the disorder.

I had never before beheld one killed by pestilence. While every mind was full
of dismay at its effects, a craving for excitement had led us to peruse De
Foe’s account, and the masterly delineations of the author of Arthur
Mervyn. The pictures drawn in these books were so vivid, that we seemed to have
experienced the results depicted by them. But cold were the sensations excited
by words, burning though they were, and describing the death and misery of
thousands, compared to what I felt in looking on the corpse of this unhappy
stranger. This indeed was the plague. I raised his rigid limbs, I marked the
distortion of his face, and the stony eyes lost to perception. As I was thus
occupied, chill horror congealed my blood, making my flesh quiver and my hair
to stand on end. Half insanely I spoke to the dead. So the plague killed you, I
muttered. How came this? Was the coming painful? You look as if the enemy had
tortured, before he murdered you. And now I leapt up precipitately, and escaped
from the hut, before nature could revoke her laws, and inorganic words be
breathed in answer from the lips of the departed.

On returning through the lane, I saw at a distance the same assemblage of
persons which I had left. They hurried away, as soon as they saw me; my
agitated mien added to their fear of coming near one who had entered within the
verge of contagion.

At a distance from facts one draws conclusions which appear infallible, which
yet when put to the test of reality, vanish like unreal dreams. I had ridiculed
the fears of my countrymen, when they related to others; now that they came
home to myself, I paused. The Rubicon, I felt, was passed; and it behoved me
well to reflect what I should do on this hither side of disease and danger.
According to the vulgar superstition, my dress, my person, the air I breathed,
bore in it mortal danger to myself and others. Should I return to the Castle,
to my wife and children, with this taint upon me? Not surely if I were
infected; but I felt certain that I was not—a few hours would determine
the question—I would spend these in the forest, in reflection on what was
to come, and what my future actions were to be. In the feeling communicated to
me by the sight of one struck by the plague, I forgot the events that had
excited me so strongly in London; new and more painful prospects, by degrees
were cleared of the mist which had hitherto veiled them. The question was no
longer whether I should share Adrian’s toils and danger; but in what
manner I could, in Windsor and the neighbourhood, imitate the prudence and zeal
which, under his government, produced order and plenty in London, and how, now
pestilence had spread more widely, I could secure the health of my own family.

I spread the whole earth out as a map before me. On no one spot of its surface
could I put my finger and say, here is safety. In the south, the disease,
virulent and immedicable, had nearly annihilated the race of man; storm and
inundation, poisonous winds and blights, filled up the measure of suffering. In
the north it was worse—the lesser population gradually declined, and
famine and plague kept watch on the survivors, who, helpless and feeble, were
ready to fall an easy prey into their hands.

I contracted my view to England. The overgrown metropolis, the great heart of
mighty Britain, was pulseless. Commerce had ceased. All resort for ambition or
pleasure was cut off—the streets were grass-grown—the houses
empty—the few, that from necessity remained, seemed already branded with
the taint of inevitable pestilence. In the larger manufacturing towns the same
tragedy was acted on a smaller, yet more disastrous scale. There was no Adrian
to superintend and direct, while whole flocks of the poor were struck and
killed. Yet we were not all to die. No truly, though thinned, the race of man
would continue, and the great plague would, in after years, become matter of
history and wonder. Doubtless this visitation was for extent
unexampled—more need that we should work hard to dispute its progress;
ere this men have gone out in sport, and slain their thousands and tens of
thousands; but now man had become a creature of price; the life of one of them
was of more worth than the so called treasures of kings. Look at his
thought-endued countenance, his graceful limbs, his majestic brow, his wondrous
mechanism—the type and model of this best work of God is not to be cast
aside as a broken vessel—he shall be preserved, and his children and his
children’s children carry down the name and form of man to latest time.

Above all I must guard those entrusted by nature and fate to my especial care.
And surely, if among all my fellow-creatures I were to select those who might
stand forth examples of the greatness and goodness of man, I could choose no
other than those allied to me by the most sacred ties. Some from among the
family of man must survive, and these should be among the survivors; that
should be my task—to accomplish it my own life were a small sacrifice.
There then in that castle—in Windsor Castle, birth-place of Idris and my
babes, should be the haven and retreat for the wrecked bark of human society.
Its forest should be our world—its garden afford us food; within its
walls I would establish the shaken throne of health. I was an outcast and a
vagabond, when Adrian gently threw over me the silver net of love and
civilization, and linked me inextricably to human charities and human
excellence. I was one, who, though an aspirant after good, and an ardent lover
of wisdom, was yet unenrolled in any list of worth, when Idris, the princely
born, who was herself the personification of all that was divine in woman, she
who walked the earth like a poet’s dream, as a carved goddess endued with
sense, or pictured saint stepping from the canvas—she, the most worthy,
chose me, and gave me herself—a priceless gift.

During several hours I continued thus to meditate, till hunger and fatigue
brought me back to the passing hour, then marked by long shadows cast from the
descending sun. I had wandered towards Bracknel, far to the west of Windsor.
The feeling of perfect health which I enjoyed, assured me that I was free from
contagion. I remembered that Idris had been kept in ignorance of my
proceedings. She might have heard of my return from London, and my visit to
Bolter’s Lock, which, connected with my continued absence, might tend
greatly to alarm her. I returned to Windsor by the Long Walk, and passing
through the town towards the Castle, I found it in a state of agitation and
disturbance.

“It is too late to be ambitious,” says Sir Thomas Browne. “We
cannot hope to live so long in our names as some have done in their persons;
one face of Janus holds no proportion to the other.” Upon this text many
fanatics arose, who prophesied that the end of time was come. The spirit of
superstition had birth, from the wreck of our hopes, and antics wild and
dangerous were played on the great theatre, while the remaining particle of
futurity dwindled into a point in the eyes of the prognosticators.
Weak-spirited women died of fear as they listened to their denunciations; men
of robust form and seeming strength fell into idiotcy and madness, racked by
the dread of coming eternity. A man of this kind was now pouring forth his
eloquent despair among the inhabitants of Windsor. The scene of the morning,
and my visit to the dead, which had been spread abroad, had alarmed the
country-people, so they had become fit instruments to be played upon by a
maniac.

The poor wretch had lost his young wife and lovely infant by the plague. He was
a mechanic; and, rendered unable to attend to the occupation which supplied his
necessities, famine was added to his other miseries. He left the chamber which
contained his wife and child—wife and child no more, but “dead
earth upon the earth”—wild with hunger, watching and grief, his
diseased fancy made him believe himself sent by heaven to preach the end of
time to the world. He entered the churches, and foretold to the congregations
their speedy removal to the vaults below. He appeared like the forgotten spirit
of the time in the theatres, and bade the spectators go home and die. He had
been seized and confined; he had escaped and wandered from London among the
neighbouring towns, and, with frantic gestures and thrilling words, he unveiled
to each their hidden fears, and gave voice to the soundless thought they dared
not syllable. He stood under the arcade of the town-hall of Windsor, and from
this elevation harangued a trembling crowd.

“Hear, O ye inhabitants of the earth,” he cried, “hear thou,
all seeing, but most pitiless Heaven! hear thou too, O tempest-tossed heart,
which breathes out these words, yet faints beneath their meaning! Death is
among us! The earth is beautiful and flower-bedecked, but she is our grave! The
clouds of heaven weep for us—the pageantry of the stars is but our
funeral torchlight. Grey headed men, ye hoped for yet a few years in your
long-known abode—but the lease is up, you must remove—children, ye
will never reach maturity, even now the small grave is dug for ye—
mothers, clasp them in your arms, one death embraces you!”

Shuddering, he stretched out his hands, his eyes cast up, seemed bursting from
their sockets, while he appeared to follow shapes, to us invisible, in the
yielding air—“There they are,” he cried, “the dead!
They rise in their shrouds, and pass in silent procession towards the far land
of their doom—their bloodless lips move not—their shadowy limbs are
void of motion, while still they glide onwards. We come,” he exclaimed,
springing forwards, “for what should we wait? Haste, my friends, apparel
yourselves in the court-dress of death. Pestilence will usher you to his
presence. Why thus long? they, the good, the wise, and the beloved, are gone
before. Mothers, kiss you last—husbands, protectors no more, lead on the
partners of your death! Come, O come! while the dear ones are yet in sight, for
soon they will pass away, and we never never shall join them more.”

From such ravings as these, he would suddenly become collected, and with
unexaggerated but terrific words, paint the horrors of the time; describe with
minute detail, the effects of the plague on the human frame, and tell
heart-breaking tales of the snapping of dear affinities—the gasping
horror of despair over the death-bed of the last beloved—so that groans
and even shrieks burst from the crowd. One man in particular stood in front,
his eyes fixt on the prophet, his mouth open, his limbs rigid, while his face
changed to various colours, yellow, blue, and green, through intense fear. The
maniac caught his glance, and turned his eye on him— one has heard of the
gaze of the rattle-snake, which allures the trembling victim till he falls
within his jaws. The maniac became composed; his person rose higher; authority
beamed from his countenance. He looked on the peasant, who began to tremble,
while he still gazed; his knees knocked together; his teeth chattered. He at
last fell down in convulsions. “That man has the plague,” said the
maniac calmly. A shriek burst from the lips of the poor wretch; and then sudden
motionlessness came over him; it was manifest to all that he was dead.

Cries of horror filled the place—every one endeavoured to effect his
escape—in a few minutes the market place was cleared—the corpse lay
on the ground; and the maniac, subdued and exhausted, sat beside it, leaning
his gaunt cheek upon his thin hand. Soon some people, deputed by the
magistrates, came to remove the body; the unfortunate being saw a jailor in
each—he fled precipitately, while I passed onwards to the Castle.