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 high-bred 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.

The Last Man