2.9. CHAPTER IX.
HALF England was desolate, when October came, and the
equinoctial winds swept over the earth, chilling the
ardours of the unhealthy season. The summer, which was
uncommonly hot, had been protracted into the beginning
of this month, when on the eighteenth a sudden change
was brought about from summer temperature to winter
frost. Pestilence then made a pause in her
death-dealing career. Gasping, not daring to name our
hopes, yet full even to the brim with intense
expectation, we stood, as a ship-wrecked sailor stands
on a barren rock islanded by the ocean, watching a
distant vessel, fancying that now it nears, and then
again that it is bearing from
sight. This promise of a
renewed lease of life turned rugged natures to melting
tenderness, and by contrast filled the soft with harsh
and unnatural sentiments. When it seemed destined that
all were to die, we were reckless of the how and
when—now that the virulence of the disease was
mitigated, and it appeared willing to spare some, each
was eager to be among the elect, and clung to life with
dastard tenacity. Instances of desertion became more
frequent; and even murders, which made the hearer sick
with horror, where the fear of contagion had armed
those nearest in blood against each other. But these
smaller and separate tragedies were about to yield to a
mightier interest—and, while we were promised calm
from infectious influences, a tempest arose wilder than
the winds, a tempest bred by the passions of man,
nourished by his most violent impulses, unexampled and
dire.
A number of people from North America, the relics of
that populous continent, had set sail for the East with
mad desire of change,
leaving their native plains for
lands not less afflicted than their own. Several
hundreds landed in Ireland, about the first of
November, and took possession of such vacant
habitations as they could find; seizing upon the
superabundant food, and the stray cattle. As they
exhausted the produce of one spot, they went on to
another. At length they began to interfere with the
inhabitants, and strong in their concentrated numbers,
ejected the natives from their dwellings, and robbed
them of their winter store. A few events of this kind
roused the fiery nature of the Irish; and they attacked
the invaders. Some were destroyed; the major part
escaped by quick and well ordered movements; and danger
made them careful. Their numbers ably arranged; the
very deaths among them concealed; moving on in good
order, and apparently given up to enjoyment, they
excited the envy of the Irish. The Americans permitted
a few to join their band, and presently the recruits
outnumbered the strangers—nor did they join with them,
nor
imitate the admirable order which, preserved by the
Trans-Atlantic chiefs, rendered them at once secure and
formidable. The Irish followed their track in
disorganized multitudes; each day encreasing; each day
becoming more lawless. The Americans were eager to
escape from the spirit they had roused, and, reaching
the eastern shores of the island, embarked for England.
Their incursion would hardly have been felt had they
come alone; but the Irish, collected in unnatural
numbers, began to feel the inroads of famine, and they
followed in the wake of the Americans for England also.
The crossing of the sea could not arrest their
progress. The harbours of the desolate sea-ports of the
west of Ireland were filled with vessels of all sizes,
from the man of war to the small fishers' boat, which
lay sailorless, and rotting on the lazy deep. The
emigrants embarked by hundreds, and unfurling their
sails with rude hands, made strange havoc of buoy and
cordage. Those who modestly betook themselves to the
smaller craft, for the most part achieved their watery
journey in safety. Some, in the true spirit of reckless
enterprise, went on board a ship of an hundred and
twenty guns; the vast hull drifted with the tide out of
the bay, and after many hours its crew of landsmen
contrived to spread a great part of her enormous
canvass—the wind took it, and while a thousand
mistakes of the helmsman made her present her head now
to one point, and now to another, the vast fields of
canvass that formed her sails flapped with a sound like
that of a huge cataract; or such as a sea-like forest
may give forth when buffeted by an equinoctial
north-wind. The port-holes were open, and with every
sea, which as she lurched, washed her decks, they
received whole tons of water. The difficulties were
increased by a fresh breeze which began to blow,
whistling among the shrowds, dashing the sails this way
and that, and rending them with horrid split, and such
whir as may have visited the dreams of Milton,
when he
imagined the winnowing of the arch-fiend's van-like
wings, which encreased the uproar of wild chaos. These
sounds were mingled with the roaring of the sea, the
splash of the chafed billows round the vessel's sides,
and the gurgling up of the water in the hold. The crew,
many of whom had never seen the sea before, felt indeed
as if heaven and earth came ruining together, as the
vessel dipped her bows in the waves, or rose high upon
them. Their yells were drowned in the clamour of
elements, and the thunder rivings of their unwieldy
habitation—they discovered at last that the water
gained on them, and they betook themselves to their
pumps; they might as well have laboured to empty the
ocean by bucketfuls. As the sun went down, the gale
encreased; the ship seemed to feel her danger, she was
now completely water-logged, and presented other
indications of settling before she went down. The bay
was crowded with vessels, whose crews, for the most
part, were observing the
uncouth sportings of this huge
unwieldy machine—they saw her gradually sink; the
waters now rising above her lower decks—they could
hardly wink before she had utterly disappeared, nor
could the place where the sea had closed over her be at
all discerned. Some few of her crew were saved, but the
greater part clinging to her cordage and masts went
down with her, to rise only when death loosened their
hold.
This event caused many of those who were about to sail,
to put foot again on firm land, ready to encounter any
evil rather than to rush into the yawning jaws of the
pitiless ocean. But these were few, in comparison to
the numbers who actually crossed. Many went up as high
as Belfast to ensure a shorter passage, and then
journeying south through Scotland, they were joined by
the poorer natives of that country, and all poured with
one consent into England.
Such incursions struck the English with
affright, in
all those towns where there was still sufficient
population to feel the change. There was room enough
indeed in our hapless country for twice the number of
invaders; but their lawless spirit instigated them to
violence; they took a delight in thrusting the
possessors from their houses; in seizing on some
mansion of luxury, where the noble dwellers secluded
themselves in fear of the plague; in forcing these of
either sex to become their servants and purveyors;
till, the ruin complete in one place, they removed
their locust visitation to another. When unopposed they
spread their ravages wide; in cases of danger they
clustered, and by dint of numbers overthrew their weak
and despairing foes. They came from the east and the
north, and directed their course without apparent
motive, but unanimously towards our unhappy metropolis.
Communication had been to a great degree cut off
through the paralyzing effects of pestilence, so that
the van of our invaders had proceeded
as far as
Manchester and Derby, before we received notice of
their arrival. They swept the country like a conquering
army, burning—laying
waste—murdering. The lower and vagabond English joined
with them. Some few of the Lords Lieutenant who
remained, endeavoured to collect the militia—but the
ranks were vacant, panic seized on all, and the
opposition that was made only served to increase the
audacity and cruelty of the enemy. They talked of
taking London, conquering England—calling to mind the
long detail of injuries which had for many years been
forgotten. Such vaunts displayed their weakness, rather
than their strength—yet still they might do extreme
mischief, which, ending in their destruction, would
render them at last objects of compassion and remorse.
We were now taught how, in the beginning of the world,
mankind clothed their enemies in impossible
attributes—and how details proceeding from mouth to
mouth, might, like Virgil's ever-growing
Rumour, reach
the heavens with her brow, and clasp Hesperus and
Lucifer with her outstretched hands. Gorgon and
Centaur, dragon and iron-hoofed lion, vast sea-monster
and gigantic hydra, were but types of the strange and
appalling accounts brought to London concerning our
invaders. Their landing was long unknown, but having
now advanced within an hundred miles of London, the
country people flying before them arrived in successive
troops, each exaggerating the numbers, fury, and
cruelty of the assailants. Tumult filled the before
quiet streets—women and children deserted their homes,
escaping they knew not whither—fathers, husbands, and
sons, stood trembling, not for themselves, but for
their loved and defenceless relations. As the country
people poured into London, the citizens fled
southwards—they climbed the higher edifices of the
town, fancying that they could discern the smoke and
flames the enemy spread around them. As Windsor lay, to
a great degree, in the line of march from
the west, I
removed my family to London, assigning the Tower for
their sojourn, and joining Adrian, acted as his
Lieutenant in the coming struggle.
We employed only two days in our preparations, and made
good use of them. Artillery and arms were collected;
the remnants of such regiments, as could be brought
through many losses into any show of muster, were put
under arms, with that appearance of military discipline
which might encourage our own party, and seem most
formidable to the disorganized multitude of our
enemies. Even music was not wanting: banners floated in
the air, and the shrill fife and loud trumpet breathed
forth sounds of encouragement and victory. A practised
ear might trace an undue faltering in the step of the
soldiers; but this was not occasioned so much by fear
of the adversary, as by disease, by sorrow, and by
fatal prognostications, which often weighed most
potently on the
brave, and quelled the manly heart to
abject subjection.
Adrian led the troops. He was full of care. It was
small relief to him that our discipline should gain us
success in such a conflict; while plague still hovered
to equalize the conqueror and the conquered, it was not
victory that he desired, but bloodless peace. As we
advanced, we were met by bands of peasantry, whose
almost naked condition, whose despair and horror, told
at once the fierce nature of the coming enemy. The
senseless spirit of conquest and thirst of spoil
blinded them, while with insane fury they deluged the
country in ruin. The sight of the military restored
hope to those who fled, and revenge took place of fear.
They inspired the soldiers with the same sentiment.
Languor was changed to ardour, the slow step converted
to a speedy pace, while the hollow murmur of the
multitude, inspired by one feeling, and that deadly,
filled the air, drowning
the clang of arms and sound of
music. Adrian perceived the change, and feared that it
would be difficult to prevent them from wreaking their
utmost fury on the Irish. He rode through the lines,
charging the officers to restrain the troops, exhorting
the soldiers, restoring order, and quieting in some
degree the violent agitation that swelled every bosom.
We first came upon a few stragglers of the Irish at St.
Albans. They retreated, and, joining others of their
companions, still fell back, till they reached the main
body. Tidings of an armed and regular opposition
recalled them to a sort of order. They made Buckingham
their head-quarters, and scouts were sent out to
ascertain our situation. We remained for the night at
Luton. In the morning a simultaneous movement caused us
each to advance. It was early dawn, and the air,
impregnated with freshest odour, seemed in idle mockery
to play with our banners, and bore onwards towards the
enemy the music of the bands, the neighings of the
horses, and regular step of the infantry. The first
sound of martial instruments that came upon our
undisciplined foe, inspired surprise, not unmingled
with dread. It spoke of other days, of days of concord
and order; it was associated with times when plague was
not, and man lived beyond the shadow of imminent fate.
The pause was momentary. Soon we heard their disorderly
clamour, the barbarian shouts, the untimed step of
thousands coming on in disarray. Their troops now came
pouring on us from the open country or narrow lanes; a
large extent of unenclosed fields lay between us; we
advanced to the middle of this, and then made a halt:
being somewhat on superior ground, we could discern the
space they covered. When their leaders perceived us
drawn out in opposition, they also gave the word to
halt, and endeavoured to form their men into some
imitation of military discipline. The first ranks had
muskets; some were mounted, but their arms were such as
they had seized during their advance, their horses
those they had taken from the peasantry; there was no
uniformity, and little obedience, but their shouts and
wild gestures showed the untamed spirit that inspired
them. Our soldiers received the word, and advanced to
quickest time, but in perfect order: their uniform
dresses, the gleam of their polished arms, their
silence, and looks of sullen hate, were more appalling
than the savage clamour of our innumerous foe. Thus
coming nearer and nearer each other, the howls and
shouts of the Irish increased; the English proceeded in
obedience to their officers, until they came near
enough to distinguish the faces of their enemies; the
sight inspired them with fury: with one cry, that rent
heaven and was re-echoed by the furthest lines, they
rushed on; they disdained the use of the bullet, but
with fixed bayonet dashed among the opposing foe, while
the ranks opening at intervals, the matchmen lighted
the cannon, whose deafening roar and blinding smoke
filled up the horror of the scene.
I was beside Adrian; a moment before he had again given
the word to halt, and had remained a few yards distant
from us in deep meditation: he was forming swiftly his
plan of action, to prevent the effusion of blood; the
noise of cannon, the sudden rush of the troops, and
yell of the foe, startled him: with flashing eyes he
exclaimed, "Not one of these must perish!" and plunging
the rowels into his horse's sides, he dashed between
the conflicting bands. We, his staff, followed him to
surround and protect him; obeying his signal, however,
we fell back somewhat. The soldiery perceiving him,
paused in their onset; he did not swerve from the
bullets that passed near him, but rode immediately
between the opposing lines. Silence succeeded to
clamour; about fifty men lay on the ground dying or
dead. Adrian raised his sword in act to speak: "By
whose command," he cried, addressing his own troops,
"do you advance? Who ordered your attack? Fall back;
these misguided men shall not be slaughtered, while I
am your general.
Sheath your weapons; these are your
brothers, commit not fratricide; soon the plague will
not leave one for you to glut your revenge upon: will
you be more pitiless than pestilence? As you honour
me—as you worship God, in whose image those also are
created—as your children and friends are dear to
you,—shed not a drop of precious human blood."
He spoke with outstretched hand and winning voice, and
then turning to our invaders, with a severe brow, he
commanded them to lay down their arms: "Do you think,"
he said, "that because we are wasted by plague, you can
overcome us; the plague is also among you, and when ye
are vanquished by famine and disease, the ghosts of
those you have murdered will arise to bid you not hope
in death. Lay down your arms, barbarous and cruel
men—men whose hands are stained with the blood of the
innocent, whose souls are weighed down by the orphan's
cry! We shall conquer, for the right is on our side;
already your cheeks are pale—the
weapons fall from
your nerveless grasp. Lay down your arms, fellow men!
brethren! Pardon, succour, and brotherly love await
your repentance. You are dear to us, because you wear
the frail shape of humanity; each one among you will
find a friend and host among these forces. Shall man be
the enemy of man, while plague, the foe to all, even
now is above us, triumphing in our butchery, more cruel
than her own?"
Each army paused. On our side the soldiers grasped
their arms firmly, and looked with stern glances on the
foe. These had not thrown down their weapons, more from
fear than the spirit of contest; they looked at each
other, each wishing to follow some example given
him,—but they had no leader. Adrian threw himself from
his horse, and approaching one of those just slain: "He
was a man," he cried, "and he is dead. O quickly bind
up the wounds of the fallen—let not one die; let not
one more soul escape through your merciless gashes, to
relate before
the throne of God the tale of fratricide;
bind up their wounds—restore them to their friends.
Cast away the hearts of tigers that burn in your
breasts; throw down those tools of cruelty and hate; in
this pause of exterminating destiny, let each man be
brother, guardian, and stay to the other. Away with
those blood-stained arms, and hasten some of you to
bind up these wounds."
As he spoke, he knelt on the ground, and raised in his
arms a man from whose side the warm tide of life
gushed—the poor wretch gasped—so still had either
host become, that his moans were distinctly heard, and
every heart, late fiercely bent on universal massacre,
now beat anxiously in hope and fear for the fate of
this one man. Adrian tore off his military scarf and
bound it round the sufferer—it was too late—the man
heaved a deep sigh, his head fell back, his limbs lost
their sustaining power.—"He is dead!" said Adrian, as
the corpse fell from his arms on the ground, and he
bowed his head in sorrow and awe. The fate of the
world
seemed bound up in the death of this single man. On
either side the bands threw down their arms, even the
veterans wept, and our party held out their hands to
their foes, while a gush of love and deepest amity
filled every heart. The two forces mingling, unarmed
and hand in hand, talking only how each might assist
the other, the adversaries conjoined; each repenting,
the one side their former cruelties, the other their
late violence, they obeyed the orders of the General to
proceed towards London.
Adrian was obliged to exert his utmost prudence, first
to allay the discord, and then to provide for the
multitude of the invaders. They were marched to various
parts of the southern counties, quartered in deserted
villages,—a part were sent back to their own island,
while the season of winter so far revived our energy,
that the passes of the country were defended, and any
increase of numbers prohibited.
On this occasion Adrian and Idris met after a
separation of nearly a year. Adrian had been
occupied
in fulfilling a laborious and painful task. He had been
familiar with every species of human misery, and had
for ever found his powers inadequate, his aid of small
avail. Yet the purpose of his soul, his energy and
ardent resolution, prevented any re-action of sorrow.
He seemed born anew, and virtue, more potent than
Medean alchemy, endued him with health and strength.
Idris hardly recognized the fragile being, whose form
had seemed to bend even to the summer breeze, in the
energetic man, whose very excess of sensibility
rendered him more capable of fulfilling his station of
pilot in storm-tossed England.
It was not thus with Idris. She was uncomplaining; but
the very soul of fear had taken its seat in her heart.
She had grown thin and pale, her eyes filled with
involuntary tears, her voice was broken and low. She
tried to throw a veil over the change which she knew
her brother must observe in her, but the effort was
ineffectual; and when alone with him, with a
burst of
irrepressible grief she gave vent to her apprehensions
and sorrow. She described in vivid terms the ceaseless
care that with still renewing hunger ate into her soul;
she compared this gnawing of sleepless expectation of
evil, to the vulture that fed on the heart of
Prometheus; under the influence of this eternal
excitement, and of the interminable struggles she
endured to combat and conceal it, she felt, she said,
as if all the wheels and springs of the animal machine
worked at double rate, and were fast consuming
themselves. Sleep was not sleep, for her waking
thoughts, bridled by some remains of reason, and by the
sight of her children happy and in health, were then
transformed to wild dreams, all her terrors were
realized, all her fears received their dread
fulfilment. To this state there was no hope, no
alleviation, unless the grave should quickly receive
its destined prey, and she be permitted to die, before
she experienced a thousand living deaths in the loss of
those she loved. Fearing to give me pain, she hid as
best she could
the excess of her wretchedness, but
meeting thus her brother after a long absence, she
could not restrain the expression of her woe, but with
all the vividness of imagination with which misery is
always replete, she poured out the emotions of her
heart to her beloved and sympathizing Adrian.
Her present visit to London tended to augment her state
of inquietude, by shewing in its utmost extent the
ravages occasioned by pestilence. It hardly preserved
the appearance of an inhabited city; grass sprung up
thick in the streets; the squares were weed-grown, the
houses were shut up, while silence and loneliness
characterized the busiest parts of the town. Yet in the
midst of desolation Adrian had preserved order; and
each one continued to live according to law and
custom—human institutions thus surviving as it were
divine ones, and while the decree of population was
abrogated, property continued sacred. It was a
melancholy reflection; and in spite of the diminution
of evil produced, it
struck on the heart as a wretched
mockery. All idea of resort for pleasure, of theatres
and festivals had passed away. "Next summer," said
Adrian as we parted on our return to Windsor, "will
decide the fate of the human race. I shall not pause in
my exertions until that time; but, if plague revives
with the coming year, all contest with her must cease,
and our only occupation be the choice of a grave."
I must not forget one incident that occurred during
this visit to London. The visits of Merrival to
Windsor, before frequent, had suddenly ceased. At this
time where but a hair's line separated the living from
the dead, I feared that our friend had become a victim
to the all-embracing evil. On this occasion I went,
dreading the worst, to his dwelling, to see if I could
be of any service to those of his family who might have
survived. The house was deserted, and had been one of
those assigned to the invading strangers quartered in
London. I saw his astronomical instruments put to
strange uses,
his globes defaced, his papers covered
with abstruse calculations destroyed. The neighbours
could tell me little, till I lighted on a poor woman
who acted as nurse in these perilous times. She told me
that all the family were dead, except Merrival himself,
who had gone mad—mad, she called it, yet on
questioning her further, it appeared that he was
possessed only by the delirium of excessive grief. This
old man, tottering on the edge of the grave, and
prolonging his prospect through millions of calculated
years,—this visionary who had not seen starvation in
the wasted forms of his wife and children, or plague in
the horrible sights and sounds that surrounded
him—this astronomer, apparently dead on earth, and
living only in the motion of the spheres—loved his
family with unapparent but intense affection. Through
long habit they had become a part of himself; his want
of worldly knowledge, his absence of mind and infant
guilelessness, made him utterly dependent on
them. It
was not till one of them died that he perceived their
danger; one by one they were carried off by pestilence;
and his wife, his helpmate and supporter, more
necessary to him than his own limbs and frame, which
had hardly been taught the lesson of self-preservation,
the kind companion whose voice always spoke peace to
him, closed her eyes in death. The old man felt the
system of universal nature which he had so long studied
and adored, slide from under him, and he stood among
the dead, and lifted his voice in curses.—No wonder
that the attendant should interpret as phrensy the
harrowing maledictions of the grief-struck old man.
I had commenced my search late in the day, a November
day, that closed in early with pattering rain and
melancholy wind. As I turned from the door, I saw
Merrival, or rather the shadow of Merrival, attenuated
and wild, pass me, and sit on the steps of his home.
The breeze scattered the grey locks on his temples, the
rain drenched his uncovered head, he sat hiding his
face in his withered hands. I pressed his shoulder to
awaken his attention, but he did not alter his
position. "Merrival," I said, "it is long since we have
seen you—you must return to Windsor with me—Lady
Idris desires to see you, you will not refuse her
request—come home with me."
He replied in a hollow voice, "Why deceive a helpless
old man, why talk hypocritically to one half crazed?
Windsor is not my home; my true home I have found; the
home that the Creator has prepared for me."
His accent of bitter scorn thrilled me—"Do not tempt
me to speak," he continued, "my words would scare
you—in an universe of cowards I dare think—among the
church-yard tombs—among the victims of His merciless
tyranny I dare reproach the Supreme Evil. How can he
punish me? Let him bare his arm and transfix me with
lightning—this is also one of his attributes"—and the
old man laughed.
He rose, and I followed him through the rain
to a
neighbouring church-yard—he threw himself on the wet
earth. "Here they are," he cried, "beautiful
creatures—breathing, speaking, loving creatures. She
who by day and night cherished the age-worn lover of
her youth—they, parts of my flesh, my children—here
they are: call them, scream their names through the
night; they will not answer!" He clung to the little
heaps that marked the graves. "I ask but one thing; I
do not fear His hell, for I have it here; I do not
desire His heaven, let me but die and be laid beside
them; let me but, when I lie dead, feel my flesh as it
moulders, mingle with theirs. Promise," and he raised
himself painfully, and seized my arm, "promise to bury
me with them."
"So God help me and mine as I promise," I replied, "on
one condition: return with me to Windsor."
"To Windsor!" he cried with a shriek, "Never!—from
this place I never go—my bones, my flesh, I myself,
are already buried here, and
what you see of me is
corrupted clay like them. I will lie here, and cling
here, till rain, and hail, and lightning and storm,
ruining on me, make me one in substance with them
below."
In a few words I must conclude this tragedy. I was
obliged to leave London, and Adrian undertook to watch
over him; the task was soon fulfilled; age, grief, and
inclement weather, all united to hush his sorrows, and
bring repose to his heart, whose beats were agony. He
died embracing the sod, which was piled above his
breast, when he was placed beside the beings whom he
regretted with such wild despair.
I returned to Windsor at the wish of Idris, who seemed
to think that there was greater safety for her children
at that spot; and because, once having taken on me the
guardianship of the district, I would not desert it
while an inhabitant survived. I went also to act in
conformity with Adrian's plans, which was to congregate
in masses what remained of the population; for he
possessed the conviction that it
was only through the
benevolent and social virtues that any safety was to be
hoped for the remnant of mankind.
It was a melancholy thing to return to this spot so
dear to us, as the scene of a happiness rarely before
enjoyed, here to mark the extinction of our species,
and trace the deep uneraseable footsteps of disease
over the fertile and cherished soil. The aspect of the
country had so far changed, that it had been impossible
to enter on the task of sowing seed, and other autumnal
labours. That season was now gone; and winter had set
in with sudden and unusual severity. Alternate frosts
and thaws succeeding to floods, rendered the country
impassable. Heavy falls of snow gave an arctic
appearance to the scenery; the roofs of the houses
peeped from the white mass; the lowly cot and stately
mansion, alike deserted, were blocked up, their
thresholds uncleared; the windows were broken by the
hail, while the prevalence of a north-east wind
rendered out-door
exertions extremely painful. The
altered state of society made these accidents of
nature, sources of real misery. The luxury of command
and the attentions of servitude were lost. It is true
that the necessaries of life were assembled in such
quantities, as to supply to superfluity the wants of
the diminished population; but still much labour was
required to arrange these, as it were, raw materials;
and depressed by sickness, and fearful of the future,
we had not energy to enter boldly and decidedly on any
system.
I can speak for myself—want of energy was not my
failing. The intense life that quickened my pulses, and
animated my frame, had the effect, not of drawing me
into the mazes of active life, but of exalting my
lowliness, and of bestowing majestic proportions on
insignificant objects—I could have lived the life of a
peasant in the same way—my trifling occupations were
swelled into important pursuits; my affections were
impetuous and engrossing passions, and
nature with all
her changes was invested in divine attributes. The very
spirit of the Greek mythology inhabited my heart; I
deified the uplands, glades, and streams, I
Had sight of Proteus coming from the sea;
And heard old Triton blow his wreathed horn. [15]
Strange, that while the earth preserved her monotonous
course, I dwelt with ever-renewing wonder on her
antique laws, and now that with excentric wheel she
rushed into an untried path, I should feel this spirit
fade; I struggled with despondency and weariness, but
like a fog, they choked me. Perhaps, after the labours
and stupendous excitement of the past summer, the calm
of winter and the almost menial toils it brought with
it, were by natural re-action doubly irksome. It was
not the grasping passion of the preceding year, which
gave life and individuality to each moment—it was
not
the aching pangs induced by the distresses of the
times. The utter inutility that had attended all my
exertions took from them their usual effects of
exhilaration, and despair rendered abortive the balm of
self applause—I longed to return to my old
occupations, but of what use were they? To read were
futile—to write, vanity indeed. The earth, late wide
circus for the display of dignified exploits, vast
theatre for a magnificent drama, now presented a vacant
space, an empty stage—for actor or spectator there was
no longer aught to say or hear.
Our little town of Windsor, in which the survivors from
the neighbouring counties were chiefly assembled, wore
a melancholy aspect. Its streets were blocked up with
snow—the few passengers seemed palsied, and frozen by
the ungenial visitation of winter. To escape these
evils was the aim and scope of all our exertions.
Families late devoted to exalting and refined pursuits,
rich, blooming, and young, with diminished numbers and
care-fraught
hearts, huddled over a fire, grown selfish
and grovelling through suffering. Without the aid of
servants, it was necessary to discharge all household
duties; hands unused to such labour must knead the
bread, or in the absence of flour, the statesmen or
perfumed courtier must undertake the butcher's office.
Poor and rich were now equal, or rather the poor were
the superior, since they entered on such tasks with
alacrity and experience; while ignorance, inaptitude,
and habits of repose, rendered them fatiguing to the
luxurious, galling to the proud, disgustful to all
whose minds, bent on intellectual improvement, held it
their dearest privilege to be exempt from attending to
mere animal wants.
But in every change goodness and affection can find
field for exertion and display. Among some these
changes produced a devotion and sacrifice of self at
once graceful and heroic. It was a sight for the lovers
of the human race to enjoy; to behold, as in ancient
times, the patriarchal
modes in which the variety of
kindred and friendship fulfilled their duteous and
kindly offices. Youths, nobles of the land, performed
for the sake of mother or sister, the services of
menials with amiable cheerfulness. They went to the
river to break the ice, and draw water: they assembled
on foraging expeditions, or axe in hand felled the
trees for fuel. The females received them on their
return with the simple and affectionate welcome known
before only to the lowly cottage—a clean hearth and
bright fire; the supper ready cooked by beloved hands;
gratitude for the provision for to-morrow's meal:
strange enjoyments for the high-born English, yet they
were now their sole, hard earned, and dearly prized
luxuries.
None was more conspicuous for this graceful submission
to circumstances, noble humility, and ingenious fancy
to adorn such acts with romantic colouring, than our
own Clara. She saw my despondency, and the aching cares
of Idris. Her perpetual study was to relieve us from
labour and to spread ease and even elegance over our
altered mode of life. We still had some attendants
spared by disease, and warmly attached to us. But Clara
was jealous of their services; she would be sole
handmaid of Idris, sole minister to the wants of her
little cousins; nothing gave her so much pleasure as
our employing her in this way; she went beyond our
desires, earnest, diligent, and unwearied,—
Abra was ready ere we called her name,
And though we called another, Abra came. [16]
It was my task each day to visit the various families
assembled in our town, and when the weather permitted,
I was glad to prolong my ride, and to muse in solitude
over every changeful appearance of our destiny,
endeavouring to gather lessons for the future from the
experience of the past. The impatience with which,
while in society, the ills that afflicted my species
inspired me, were softened by loneliness,
when
individual suffering was merged in the general
calamity, strange to say, less afflicting to
contemplate. Thus often, pushing my way with difficulty
through the narrow snow-blocked town, I crossed the
bridge and passed through Eton. No youthful
congregation of gallant-hearted boys thronged the
portal of the college; sad silence pervaded the busy
school-room and noisy playground. I extended my ride
towards Salt Hill, on every side impeded by the snow.
Were those the fertile fields I loved—was that the
interchange of gentle upland and cultivated dale, once
covered with waving corn, diversified by stately trees,
watered by the meandering Thames? One sheet of white
covered it, while bitter recollection told me that cold
as the winter-clothed earth, were the hearts of the
inhabitants. I met troops of horses, herds of cattle,
flocks of sheep, wandering at will; here throwing down
a hay-rick, and nestling from cold in its heart, which
afforded them shelter and food—there having taken
possession of a vacant cottage.
Once on a frosty day, pushed on by restless
unsatisfying reflections, I sought a favourite haunt, a
little wood not far distant from Salt Hill. A bubbling
spring prattles over stones on one side, and a
plantation of a few elms and beeches, hardly deserve,
and yet continue the name of wood. This spot had for me
peculiar charms. It had been a favourite resort of
Adrian; it was secluded; and he often said that in
boyhood, his happiest hours were spent here; having
escaped the stately bondage of his mother, he sat on
the rough hewn steps that led to the spring, now
reading a favourite book, now musing, with speculation
beyond his years, on the still unravelled skein of
morals or metaphysics. A melancholy foreboding assured
me that I should never see this place more; so with
careful thought, I noted each tree, every winding of
the streamlet and irregularity of the soil, that I
might better call up its idea in absence. A robin
red-breast dropt from the frosty branches of the trees,
upon the congealed rivulet; its panting breast and
half-closed eyes shewed that it was
dying: a hawk
appeared in the air; sudden fear seized the little
creature; it exerted its last strength, throwing itself
on its back, raising its talons in impotent defence
against its powerful enemy. I took it up and placed it
in my breast. I fed it with a few crumbs from a
biscuit; by degrees it revived; its warm fluttering
heart beat against me; I cannot tell why I detail this
trifling incident—but the scene is still before me;
the snow-clad fields seen through the silvered trunks
of the beeches,—the brook, in days of happiness alive
with sparkling waters, now choked by ice—the leafless
trees fantastically dressed in hoar frost—the shapes
of summer leaves imaged by winter's frozen hand on the
hard ground—the dusky sky, drear cold, and unbroken
silence—while close in my bosom, my feathered nursling
lay warm, and safe, speaking its content with a light
chirp—painful reflections thronged, stirring my brain
with wild commotion—cold and death-like as the snowy
fields was all earth—misery-stricken the
life-tide of
the inhabitants—why should I oppose the cataract of
destruction that swept us away?—why string my nerves
and renew my wearied efforts—ah, why? But that my firm
courage and cheerful exertions might shelter the dear
mate, whom I chose in the spring of my life; though the
throbbings of my heart be replete with pain, though my
hopes for the future are chill, still while your dear
head, my gentlest love, can repose in peace on that
heart, and while you derive from its fostering care,
comfort, and hope, my struggles shall not cease,—I
will not call myself altogether vanquished.
One fine February day, when the sun had reassumed some
of its genial power, I walked in the forest with my
family. It was one of those lovely winter-days which
assert the capacity of nature to bestow beauty on
barrenness. The leafless trees spread their fibrous
branches against the pure sky; their intricate and
pervious tracery resembled delicate sea-weed; the deer
were turning up the snow in search of the hidden
grass;
the white was made intensely dazzling by the sun, and
trunks of the trees, rendered more conspicuous by the
loss of preponderating foliage, gathered around like
the labyrinthine columns of a vast temple; it was
impossible not to receive pleasure from the sight of
these things. Our children, freed from the bondage of
winter, bounded before us; pursuing the deer, or
rousing the pheasants and partridges from their
coverts. Idris leant on my arm; her sadness yielded to
the present sense of pleasure. We met other families on
the Long Walk, enjoying like ourselves the return of
the genial season. At once, I seemed to awake; I cast
off the clinging sloth of the past months; earth
assumed a new appearance, and my view of the future was
suddenly made clear. I exclaimed, "I have now found out
the secret!"
"What secret?"
In answer to this question, I described our gloomy
winter-life, our sordid cares, our menial
labours:—"This northern country," I said, "is
no place
for our diminished race. When mankind were few, it was
not here that they battled with the powerful agents of
nature, and were enabled to cover the globe with
offspring. We must seek some natural Paradise, some
garden of the earth, where our simple wants may be
easily supplied, and the enjoyment of a delicious
climate compensate for the social pleasures we have
lost. If we survive this coming summer, I will not
spend the ensuing winter in England; neither I nor any
of us."
I spoke without much heed, and the very conclusion of
what I said brought with it other thoughts. Should we,
any of us, survive the coming summer? I saw the brow of
Idris clouded; I again felt, that we were enchained to
the car of fate, over whose coursers we had no control.
We could no longer say, This we will do, and this we
will leave undone. A mightier power than the human was
at hand to destroy our plans or to achieve the work we
avoided. It were madness to calculate upon another
winter. This was
our last. The coming summer was the
extreme end of our vista; and, when we arrived there,
instead of a continuation of the long road, a gulph
yawned, into which we must of force be precipitated.
The last blessing of humanity was wrested from us; we
might no longer hope. Can the madman, as he clanks his
chains, hope? Can the wretch, led to the scaffold, who
when he lays his head on the block, marks the double
shadow of himself and the executioner, whose uplifted
arm bears the axe, hope? Can the ship-wrecked mariner,
who spent with swimming, hears close behind the
splashing waters divided by a shark which pursues him
through the Atlantic, hope? Such hope as theirs, we
also may entertain!
Old fable tells us, that this gentle spirit sprung from
the box of Pandora, else crammed with evils; but these
were unseen and null, while all admired the inspiriting
loveliness of young Hope; each man's heart became her
home; she was enthroned sovereign of our lives, here
and here-after;
she was deified and worshipped,
declared incorruptible and everlasting. But like all
other gifts of the Creator to Man, she is mortal; her
life has attained its last hour. We have watched over
her; nursed her flickering existence; now she has
fallen at once from youth to decrepitude, from health
to immedicinable disease; even as we spend ourselves in
struggles for her recovery, she dies; to all nations
the voice goes forth, Hope is dead! We are but mourners
in the funeral train, and what immortal essence or
perishable creation will refuse to make one in the sad
procession that attends to its grave the dead comforter
of humanity?
Does not the sun call in his light? and day
Like a thin exhalation melt away—
Both wrapping up their beams in clouds to be
Themselves close mourners at this obsequie. [17]