other griefs might be blunted by time; and even mine yielded sometimes

during the day, to the pleasure inspired by the imagination or the senses;

but I never look first upon the morning-light but with my fingers pressed

tight on my bursting heart, and my soul deluged with the interminable flood

of hopeless misery. Now I awoke for the first time in the dead world--I

awoke alone--and the dull dirge of the sea, heard even amidst the rain,

recalled me to the reflection of the wretch I had become. The sound came

like a reproach, a scoff--like the sting of remorse in the soul--I

gasped--the veins and muscles of my throat swelled, suffocating me. I put

my fingers to my ears, I buried my head in the leaves of my couch, I would

have dived to the centre to lose hearing of that hideous moan.

But another task must be mine--again I visited the detested beach--

again I vainly looked far and wide--again I raised my unanswered cry,

lifting up the only voice that could ever again force the mute air to

syllable the human thought.

What a pitiable, forlorn, disconsolate being I was! My very aspect and garb

told the tale of my despair. My hair was matted and wild--my limbs soiled

with salt ooze; while at sea, I had thrown off those of my garments that

encumbered me, and the rain drenched the thin summer-clothing I had

retained--my feet were bare, and the stunted reeds and broken shells made

them bleed--the while, I hurried to and fro, now looking earnestly on

some distant rock which, islanded in the sands, bore for a moment a

deceptive appearance--now with flashing eyes reproaching the murderous

ocean for its unutterable cruelty.

586

The Last Man