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Chapter 4

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.[1] 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."[2]

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!

[1] See an ingenious Essay, entitled, "The Mythological Astronomy of the
Ancients Demonstrated," by Mackey, a shoemaker, of Norwich printed in 1822.
[2] Burke's Reflections on the French Revolution.

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