The Last Man
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 Baiae. The translucent and shining waters of the calm sea covered fragments of old Roman villas, which were interlaced by seaweed and received diamond tints from the chequering of the sunbeams. 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 Baiae.
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 Cumaean 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 enterprises, 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, and 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 hypaethric 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 sunlit 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
cerdea mostrarte; et qual fero pianeta
ne ‘nvidiò inseme, 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 Cumaean 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 Cumaean 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.
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 highbred 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 control, 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 forever.
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 highbred 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 outdoor 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-control, which I inherited from my father, nursed by adversity, made me daring and reckless. I was rough as the elements and unlearnt 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 everyone 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 dreamed “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 fireplace 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.
More about The Last Man by Mary Shelley here.