A Love Story, by a Bushman by - (classic literature books TXT) 📖
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rigid creed, forbidding the more favoured commoners of nature even to
sip joy’s chalice. If not a saint, however, but a fair, confiding, and
romantic girl, she was good without misanthropy, pure without
pretension, and joyous, as youth and hopes not crushed might make her.
She was one of those of whom society might justly be proud. She obeyed
its dictates without question, but her feelings underwent no debasement
from the contact. If not a child of nature, she was by no means the
slave of art.
Emily Delmé was more beautiful than striking. She impressed more than
she exacted. Her violet eye gleamed with feeling; her smile few could
gaze on without sympathy—happy he who might revel in its brightness!
If aught gave a peculiar tinge to her character, it was the pride she
felt in the name she bore,—this she might have caught from Sir
Henry,—the interest she took in the legends connected with that name,
and the gratification which the thought gave her, that by her ancestors,
its character had been but rarely sullied, and never disgraced.
These things, it may be, she had accustomed herself to look on in a
light too glowing: for these things and all mundane ones are vain; but
her character did not consequently suffer. Her lip curled not with
hauteur, nor was her brow raised one shadow the more. The remembrance of
the old Baronetcy were on the ensanguined plain,—of the matchless
loyalty of a father and five valiant sons in the cause of the Royal
Charles,—the pondering over tomes, which in language obsolete, but
true, spoke of the grandeur—the deserved grandeur of her house; these
might be recollections and pursuits, followed with an ardour too
enthusiastic, but they stayed not the hand of charity, nor could they
check pity’s tear. If her eye flashed as she gazed on the ancient
device of her family, reposing on its time worn pedestal, it could melt
to the tale of the houseless wanderer, and sympathise with the sorrows
of the fatherless.
Chapter II.
The Album.
“Oh that the desert were my dwelling place,
With one fair spirit for my minister;
That I might all forget the human race,
And, hating no one, love but only her.”
A cheerful party were met in the drawing room of Delmé. Clarendon Gage,
a neighbouring land proprietor, to whom Emily had for a twelvemonth been
betrothed, had the night previous returned from a continental tour. In
consequence, Emily looked especially radiant, Delmé much pleased, and
Clarendon superlatively happy. Nor must we pass over Mrs. Glenallan,
Miss Delmé‘s worthy aunt, who had supplied the place of a mother to
Emily, and who now sat in her accustomed chair, with an almost sunny
brow, quietly pursuing her monotonous tambouring. At times she turned to
admire her niece, who occasionally walked to the glass window, to caress
and feed an impudent white peacock; which one moment strutted on the
wide terrace, and at another lustily tapped for his bread at ne of the
lower panes.
“I am glad to see you looking so well, Clarendon!”
“And I can return the compliment, Delmé! Few, looking at you now, would
take you for an old campaigner.”
The style of feature in Delmé and Clarendon was very dissimilar. Sir
Henry was many years Gage’s senior; but his manly bearing, and dark
decided features, would bear a contrast with even the tall and elegant,
although slight form of Clarendon. The latter was very fair, and what we
are accustomed to call English-looking. His hair almost, but not quite,
flaxen, hung in thick curls over his forehead, and would have given an
effeminate expression to the face, were it not for the peculiar flash of
the clear blue eye.
“Come! Clarendon,” said Emily, “I will impose a task. You have written
twice in my album; once, years ago, and the second time on the eve of
our parting. Come! you shall read us both effusions, and then write a
sonnet to our happy meeting. Would that dear George were here now!”
Gage took up the book. It was a moderately-sized volume, bound in
crimson velvet. It was the fashion to keep albums then. It glittered
not in a binding of azure and gold, nor were its momentous secrets
enclosed by one of Bramah’s locks. The Spanish proverb says, “Tell me
who you are with, and I will tell you what you are.” Ours, in that album
age, used to be, “Show me your scrap book, I will tell you your
character.” Emily’s was not one commencing with—
“I never loved a dear gazelle!”
and ending with stanzas on the “Forget-me-not.” It had not those
hackneyed but beautiful lines addressed by Mr. Spencer to Lady Crewe—
“I stay’d too late: forgive the crime!
Unheeded flew the hours;
For noiseless falls the foot of Time.
That only treads on flowers.”
Nor contained it those sublime, but yet more common ones, on Sir John
Moore’s death; which lines, by the bye, have suffered more from that
mischief-making, laughter-loving creature, Parody, than any lines we
know. It was not one of these books. Nor was it the splendid scrap book,
replete with superb engravings and proof-impression prints; nor at all
allied to the sentimental one of a garrison flirt, containing locks of
hair of at least five gentlemen, three of whom are officers in the army.
Nor, lastly, was it of that genus which has vulgarity in its very
title-page, and is here and there interspersed with devilish imps, or
caricatured likenesses of the little proprietress, all done in most
infinite humour, and marking the familiar friendship, of some half-dozen
whiskered cubs, having what is technically called the run of the house.
No! it was a repository for feeling and for memory, and, in its fair
pages, presented an image of Emily’s heart. Many of these were marked,
it is true; and what human being’s character is unchequered? But it was
blotless; and the virgin page looks not so white as when the contrast of
the sable ink is there.
Clarendon read aloud his first contribution—who knows it not? The very
words form a music, and that music is Metastasio’s,
“Placido zeffiretto,
Se trovi il caro oggetto,
Digli che sei sospiro
Ma non gli dir di chi,
Limpido ruscelletto,
Se mai t’incontri in lei,
Digli che pianto sei,
Ma non le dir qual’ eiglio
Crescer ti fe cosi.”
“And now, Emily! for my parting tribute—if I remember right, it was
sorrowful enough.”
Gage read, with tremulous voice, the following, which we will christen
THE FAREWELL.
I will not be the lightsome lark,
That carols to the rising morn,—
I’d rather be some plaintive bird
Lulling night’s ear forlorn.
I will not be the green, green leaf,
Mingling ‘midst thousand leaves and flowers
That shed their fairy charms around
To deck Spring’s joyous bowers.
I’d rather be the one red leaf,
Waving ‘midst Autumn’s sombre groves:—
On the heart to breathe that sadness
Which contemplation loves.
I will not be the morning ray,
Dancing upon the river’s crest,
All light, all motion, when the stream
Turns to the sun her breast.
I’d rather be the gentle shade,
Lengthening as eve comes stealing on,
And rest in pensive sadness there,
When those bright rays are gone.
I will not be a smile to play
Upon thy coral lip, and shed
Around it sweetness, like the sun
Risen from his crimson bed.
Oh, no! I’ll be the tear that steals
In pity from that eye of blue,
Making the cheek more lovely red,
Like rose-leaf dipp’d in dew.
I will not be remember’d when
Mirth shall her pageant joys impart,—
A dream to sparkle in thine eye,
Yet vanish from thy heart.
But when pensive sadness clouds thee,
When thoughts, half pain, half pleasure, steal
Upon the heart, and memory doth
The shadowy past reveal.
When seems the bliss of former years,—
Too sweet, too pure, to feel again,—
And long lost hours, scenes, friends, return,
Remember me, love—then!
“Ah, Clarendon! how often have I read those lines, and thought—but I
will not think now! Here come the letters! Henry will soon be busy—I
shall finish my drawing—and aunt will finish—no! she never can
finish her tambour work. Take my portfolio and give me another
contribution!” Gage now wrote “The Return,” which we insert for the
reader’s approval:—
THE RETURN.
When the blue-eyed morn doth peep
Over the soft hill’s verdant steep,
Lighting up its shadows deep,
I’ll think of thee, love, then!
When the lightsome lark doth sing
Her grateful song to Nature’s King,
Making all the woodlands ring,
I’ll think of thee, love, then!
Or when plaintive Philomel
Shall mourn her mate in some lone dell,
And to the night her sorrows tell,
I’ll think of thee, love, then!
When the first green leaf of spring
Shall promise of the summer bring,
And all around its fragrance fling,
I’ll think of thee, love, then!
Or when the last red leaf shall fall,
And winter spread its icy pall,
To mind me of the death of all,
I’ll think of thee, love, then!
When the lively morning ray
Is dancing on the river’s spray,
And sunshine gilds the joyous day,
I’ll think of thee, love, then!
And when the shades of eve steal on,
Lengthening as life’s sun goes down,
Like sweetest constancy alone,
I’ll think of thee, love, then!
When I see a sweet smile play
On coral lips, like Phoebus’ ray,
Making all look warm and gay,
I’ll think of thee, love, then!
When steals the tear of pity, too,
O’er a cheek, whose crimson hue
Looks like rose-leaf dipp’d in dew,
I’ll think of thee, love, then!
When mirth’s pageant joys unbind
The gloomy spells that chain my mind,
And make me dream of all that’s kind,
I’ll think of thee, love, then!
And when pensive sadness clouds me,
When the host of memory crowds me,
When the shadowy past enshrouds me,
I’ll think of thee, love, then!
When seems the bliss of former years,—
Too sweet, too pure, to feel again,—
And long lost hours, scenes, friends, return,
I’ll think of thee, love, then!
Chapter III.
The Dinner.
“Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven.”
“Away! there need no words or terms precise,
The paltry jargon of the marble mart,
Where pedantry gulls folly: we have eyes.”
We are told by the members of the silver-fork school, that no tale of
fiction can be complete unless it embody the description of a dinner.
Let us, therefore, shutting from our view that white-limbed gum-tree,
and dismissing from our table tea and damper, [Footnote: Damper.
Bushman’s fare—unleavened bread] call on memory’s fading powers, and
feast once more with the rich, the munificent, the intellectual
Belliston Græme.
Dinner! immortal faculty of eating! to what glorious sense or
pre-eminent passion dost thou not contribute? Is not love half fed by
thy attractions? Beams ever the eye of lover more bright than when,
after gazing with enraptured glance at the coveted haunch, whose fat—a
pure white; whose lean—a rich brown—invitingly await the assault. When
doth lover’s eye sparkle more, than when, at such a moment, it lights on
the features of the loved fair one? Is not the supper quadrille the most
dangerous and the dearest of all?
Cherished venison! delicate white soup! spare young susceptible bosoms!
Again we ask, is not dinner the very aliment of friendship? the hinge on
which it turns? Does a man’s heart expand to you ere you have
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