I did proceed to Windsor, but not with the intention of remaining there. I

went but to obtain the consent of Idris, and then to return and take my

station beside my unequalled friend; to share his labours, and save him, if

so it must be, at the expence of my life. Yet I dreaded to witness the

anguish which my resolve might excite in Idris. I had vowed to my own heart

never to shadow her countenance even with transient grief, and should I

prove recreant at the hour of greatest need? I had begun my journey with

anxious haste; now I desired to draw it out through the course of days and

months. I longed to avoid the necessity of action; I strove to escape from

thought--vainly--futurity, like a dark image in a phantasmagoria, came

nearer and more near, till it clasped the whole earth in its shadow.

A slight circumstance induced me to alter my usual route, and to return

home by Egham and Bishopgate. I alighted at Perdita's ancient abode, her

cottage; and, sending forward the carriage, determined to walk across the

park to the castle. This spot, dedicated to sweetest recollections, the

deserted house and neglected garden were well adapted to nurse my

melancholy. In our happiest days, Perdita had adorned her cottage with

every aid art might bring, to that which nature had selected to favour. In

the same spirit of exaggeration she had, on the event of her separation

from Raymond, caused it to be entirely neglected. It was now in ruin: the

deer had climbed the broken palings, and reposed among the flowers; grass

grew on the threshold, and the swinging lattice creaking to the wind, gave

signal of utter desertion. The sky was blue above, and the air impregnated

with fragrance by the rare flowers that grew among the weeds. The trees

moved overhead, awakening nature's favourite melody--but the melancholy

appearance of the choaked paths, and weed-grown flower-beds, dimmed even

this gay summer scene. The time when in proud and happy security we

assembled at this cottage, was gone--soon the present hours would join

those past, and shadows of future ones rose dark and menacing from the womb

of time, their cradle and their bier. For the first time in my life I

envied the sleep of the dead, and thought with pleasure of one's bed under

the sod, where grief and fear have no power. I passed through the gap of

the broken paling--I felt, while I disdained, the choaking tears--I

rushed into the depths of the forest. O death and change, rulers of our

life, where are ye, that I may grapple with you! What was there in our

tranquillity, that excited your envy--in our happiness, that ye should

destroy it? We were happy, loving, and beloved; the horn of Amalthea

contained no blessing unshowered upon us, but, alas!

la fortuna

deidad barbara importuna,

oy cadaver y ayer flor,

no permanece jamas![1]

As I wandered on thus ruminating, a number of country people passed me.

They seemed full of careful thought, and a few words of their conversation

that reached me, induced me to approach and make further enquiries. A party

of people flying from London, as was frequent in those days, had come up

the Thames in a boat. No one at Windsor would afford them shelter; so,

going a little further up, they remained all night in a deserted hut near

Bolter's lock. They pursued their way the following morning, leaving one of

their company behind them, sick of the plague. This circumstance once

spread abroad, none dared approach within half a mile of the infected

neighbourhood, and the deserted wretch was left to fight with disease and

death in solitude, as he best might. I was urged by compassion to hasten to

the hut, for the purpose of ascertaining his situation, and administering

to his wants.

As I advanced I met knots of country-people talking earnestly of this

event: distant as they were from the apprehended contagion, fear was