food--from all except the burning hell alive in my own bosom?

I was presented, meantime, with one other occupation, the one best fitted
to discipline my melancholy thoughts, which strayed backwards, over many a
ruin, and through many a flowery glade, even to the mountain recess, from
which in early youth I had first emerged.

During one of my rambles through the habitations of Rome, I found writing
materials on a table in an author's study. Parts of a manuscript lay
scattered about. It contained a learned disquisition on the Italian
language; one page an unfinished dedication to posterity, for whose profit
the writer had sifted and selected the niceties of this harmonious language
--to whose everlasting benefit he bequeathed his labours.

I also will write a book, I cried--for whom to read?--to whom
dedicated? And then with silly flourish (what so capricious and childish as
despair?) I wrote, DEDICATION TO THE ILLUSTRIOUS DEAD. SHADOWS, ARISE, AND
READ YOUR FALL! BEHOLD THE HISTORY OF THE LAST MAN.

Yet, will not this world be re-peopled, and the children of a saved pair of
lovers, in some to me unknown and unattainable seclusion, wandering to
these prodigious relics of the ante-pestilential race, seek to learn how
beings so wondrous in their achievements, with imaginations infinite, and
powers godlike, had departed from their home to an unknown country?

I will write and leave in this most ancient city, this "world's sole
monument," a record of these things. I will leave a monument of the
existence of Verney, the Last Man. At first I thought only to speak of
plague, of death, and last, of desertion; but I lingered fondly on my early
years, and recorded with sacred zeal the virtues of my companions. They
have been with me during the fulfilment of my task. I have brought it to an
end--I lift my eyes from my paper--again they are lost to me. Again I
feel that I am alone.

A year has passed since I have been thus occupied. The seasons have made
their wonted round, and decked this eternal city in a changeful robe of
surpassing beauty. A year has passed; and I no longer guess at my state or
my prospects--loneliness is my familiar, sorrow my inseparable companion.
I have endeavoured to brave the storm--I have endeavoured to school
myself to fortitude--I have sought to imbue myself with the lessons of
wisdom. It will not do. My hair has become nearly grey--my voice, unused
now to utter sound, comes strangely on my ears.