oozy caves, and
soundless depths of ocean may be my dwelling, before I accomplish this
long-drawn voyage, or the arrow of disease find my heart as I float singly
on the weltering Mediterranean; or, in some place I touch at, I may find
what I seek--a companion; or if this may not be--to endless time,
decrepid and grey headed--youth already in the grave with those I love--
the lone wanderer will still unfurl his sail, and clasp the tiller--and,
still obeying the breezes of heaven, for ever round another and another
promontory, anchoring in another and another bay, still ploughing seedless
ocean, leaving behind the verdant land of native Europe, adown the tawny
shore of Africa, having weathered the fierce seas of the Cape, I may moor
my worn skiff in a creek, shaded by spicy groves of the odorous islands of
the far Indian ocean.

These are wild dreams. Yet since, now a week ago, they came on me, as I
stood on the height of St. Peter's, they have ruled my imagination. I have
chosen my boat, and laid in my scant stores. I have selected a few books;
the principal are Homer and Shakespeare--But the libraries of the world
are thrown open to me--and in any port I can renew my stock. I form no
expectation of alteration for the better; but the monotonous present is
intolerable to me. Neither hope nor joy are my pilots--restless despair
and fierce desire of change lead me on. I long to grapple with danger, to
be excited by fear, to have some task, however slight or voluntary, for
each day's fulfilment. I shall witness all the variety of appearance, that
the elements can assume--I shall read fair augury in the rainbow--
menace in the cloud--some lesson or record dear to my heart in
everything. Thus around the shores of deserted earth, while the sun is
high, and the moon waxes or wanes, angels, the spirits of the dead, and the
ever-open eye of the Supreme, will behold the tiny bark, freighted with
Verney--the LAST MAN.

THE END.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Last Man, by Mary Shelley

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