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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 520 pages of information about The Last Man.

The sun sank behind the western hills; I had fasted since the preceding evening, but, though faint and weary, I loathed food, nor ceased, while yet a ray of light remained, to pace the lonely streets.  Night came on, and sent every living creature but me to the bosom of its mate.  It was my solace, to blunt my mental agony by personal hardship—­of the thousand beds around, I would not seek the luxury of one; I lay down on the pavement,—­a cold marble step served me for a pillow—­midnight came; and then, though not before, did my wearied lids shut out the sight of the twinkling stars, and their reflex on the pavement near.  Thus I passed the second night of my desolation.

CHAPTER X.

I awoke in the morning, just as the higher windows of the lofty houses received the first beams of the rising sun.  The birds were chirping, perched on the windows sills and deserted thresholds of the doors.  I awoke, and my first thought was, Adrian and Clara are dead.  I no longer shall be hailed by their good-morrow—­or pass the long day in their society.  I shall never see them more.  The ocean has robbed me of them—­stolen their hearts of love from their breasts, and given over to corruption what was dearer to me than light, or life, or hope.

I was an untaught shepherd-boy, when Adrian deigned to confer on me his friendship.  The best years of my life had been passed with him.  All I had possessed of this world’s goods, of happiness, knowledge, or virtue—­I owed to him.  He had, in his person, his intellect, and rare qualities, given a glory to my life, which without him it had never known.  Beyond all other beings he had taught me, that goodness, pure and single, can be an attribute of man.  It was a sight for angels to congregate to behold, to view him lead, govern, and solace, the last days of the human race.

My lovely Clara also was lost to me—­she who last of the daughters of man, exhibited all those feminine and maiden virtues, which poets, painters, and sculptors, have in their various languages strove to express.  Yet, as far as she was concerned, could I lament that she was removed in early youth from the certain advent of misery?  Pure she was of soul, and all her intents were holy.  But her heart was the throne of love, and the sensibility her lovely countenance expressed, was the prophet of many woes, not the less deep and drear, because she would have for ever concealed them.

These two wondrously endowed beings had been spared from the universal wreck, to be my companions during the last year of solitude.  I had felt, while they were with me, all their worth.  I was conscious that every other sentiment, regret, or passion had by degrees merged into a yearning, clinging affection for them.  I had not forgotten the sweet partner of my youth, mother of my children, my adored Idris; but I saw at least a part of her spirit alive again in her brother; and after, that by Evelyn’s death

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