The Last Man

by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

Farewell to the arts,--to eloquence, which is to the human mind as the winds to the sea, stirring, and then allaying it;--farewell to poetry and deep philosophy, for man's imagination is cold, and his enquiring mind can no longer expatiate on the wonders of life, for "there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom in the grave, whither thou goest!"--to the graceful building, which in its perfect proportion transcended the rude forms of nature, the fretted gothic and massy saracenic pile, to the stupendous arch and glorious dome, the fluted column with its capital, Corinthian, Ionic, or Doric, the peristyle and fair entablature, whose harmony of form is to the eye as musical concord to the ear!--farewell to sculpture, where the pure marble mocks human flesh, and in the plastic expression of the culled excellencies of the human shape, shines forth the god!--farewell to painting, the high wrought sentiment and deep knowledge of the artists's mind in pictured canvas--to paradisaical scenes, where trees are ever vernal, and the ambrosial air rests in perpetual glow:--to the stamped form of tempest, and wildest uproar of universal nature encaged in the narrow frame, O farewell! Farewell to music, and the sound of song; to the marriage of instruments, where the concord of soft and harsh unites in sweet harmony, and gives wings to the panting listeners, whereby to climb heaven, and learn the hidden pleasures of the eternals!--Farewell to the well-trod stage; a truer trage...