A Love Story, by a Bushman by - (classic literature books TXT) 📖

it, too, George!” said his brother, “and was anxious as to the

effect the scene might have on you. I am glad it was unexpected. We

are sometimes better enabled to enact our parts improvising them, than

when we have schooled ourselves, and braced all our energies to the one

particular purpose.

 

“Acmé, how did you like the way George’s men behaved?”

 

“It made me weep with joy,” replied the young Greek, “for I love all who

love my Giorgio.”

 

Chapter XVIII.

 

The Adieu.

 

“Adieu! the joys of La Valette.”

 

*

 

“No more! no more! No! never more on me

The freshness of the heart shall fall like dew.”

 

*

 

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder,

Isle of Beauty! fare thee well.”

 

Malta! the snowy sail shivers in the wind—the waves, chafed by our

intruding keel, are proudly foaming—sea birds soar, screaming their

farewell aloft—as we wave our hand to thee for ever! What is our

feeling, as we see thee diminish hourly?

 

Regret! unfeigned regret!

 

Albeit we speed to our native land, on the wing of a bark as fleet as

ever—but it matters not—thou hast seen the best of our days.

 

Visions conjured up by thee, have the unusual power, to banish

anticipations of Almack’s glories, and of home flirtations.

 

We are recalling balls enjoyed in thee, loved island! the valse spun

round with the darling fleet-footed Maltese, who during its pauses leant

back on our arm, against which her spangled zone throbbed, from the

pulsations of her heart.

 

Dreams of turtle and of grand master—the fish, not the

official—and of consecutive iced champagne, mock our sight! But

more—yes! far more than all, are we reminded of thy abode—thou

dispenser of cheering liquids! thou promoter of convivial happiness!

meek Saverio! How swiftly glided the mirth-loving nights as—the

enchanting strains of the prima donna hushed—we adjourned to thy ever

to be praised bottegua!

 

With what precision didst thou there mete out the many varied

ingredients—the exact relative proportions—which can alone embody our

conception of the nectar of the Gods, punch à la Romaine!

 

Whose cigars ever equalled thine, thou prince of Ganymedes? and when

were cigars more justly appreciated, than as our puffs kept time with

the trolling ditty, resounding through the walls of thy domain?

 

The luxury of those days!

 

Then would Sol come peeping in upon us; as unwelcome and unlooked-for

a visitant, as to the enamoured Juliet, when she sighing told her

lover that

 

“‘Twas but a meteor that the sun exhaled,

To be to him that night a torch-bearer,

And light him on his way to Mantua.”

 

Then, with head dizzy from its gladness, with heart unduly elate, has

the Strada Teatro seen us, imperiously calling for the submissive

calèche. Arrived in our chamber, how gravely did we close its shutters!

With what a feeling of satisfied enjoyment, did we court the downy

freshness of the snow-white sheet!

 

Sweet and deep were our slumbers—for youth’s spell was upon us, and

our fifth lustre had not yet heralded us to serious thoughts and

anxious cares.

 

Awoke by the officious valet, and remorseless friend, deemest though

our debauch was felt? No! an effervescent draught of soda calmed us; we

ate a blood orange, and smoked a cigar!

 

We often hear Malta abused. Byron is the stale authority; and every

snub-nosed cynic turns up his prominent organ, and talks of “sirocco,

sun, and sweat.” Byron disliked it—he had cause. He was there at a bad

season, and was suffering from an attack of bile. We know of no place

abroad, where the English eye will meet with so little to offend it, and

so much to please and impress.

 

There is such a blending together of European, Asiatic, and African

customs; there is such a variety in the costumes one meets; there is

such grandeur in their palaces—such glory in their annals; such novelty

in their manners and habits; such devotion in their religious

observances; such simplicity and yet such beauty, in the dress of the

women; and their wearers possess such fascinations; that we defy the

most fastidious of critics, who has really resided there, to deny to

Malta many of those attributes, with which he would invest that place,

on whose beauty and agrémens, he may prefer of all others to descant.

 

With the commonplace observer, its superb harbour, studded with gilded

boats; its powerful fortifications, where art towers over nature, and

where the eye looks up a rock, and catches a bristling battery; the

glare of its scenery, with no foliage to cover the white stone;—all

these, together with the different way in which the minutiae of life are

transacted,—will call forth his attention, and demand his notice.

 

Art thou a poet, or a fancied warrior? What scene has been more replete

with noble exploits? In whose breasts did the flame of chivalry burn

brighter, than in those of the knights of St. John of Jerusalem? Not a

name meets thee, that has not belonged to a hero! If thou grievest to

find all dissimilar but the name; yet mayest thou still muse,

contemplative, over the tomb and ashes of him, whom thy mind has

shadowed forth, as a noble light in a more romantic age.

 

Art thou a moralist, a thinking Christian? Thou mayest there trace—and

the pursuit shall profit thee—the steps of the sainted apostle; he who

was so signally called forth, to hear witness to the truth of ONE, whom

he had erst reviled. Yon cordelier will show you the bay, where his

vessel took refuge in its distress; and will tell you, that yon jagged

rock first gave its dangerous welcome, to the bark of his patron saint.

 

Lovest thou music? hast loved? or been beloved? or both perchance?

 

Steal forth when night holds her starry court, and the guitars around

are tinkling, as more than one rich voice deplores his mistress’s

cruelty, in hopes she may now relent. But see! there is one, who puts

in requisition neither music’s spell, nor flattery’s lay.

 

See! he approaches. His cloak wrapped around him, he cautiously treads

the tranquil street.

 

He gains the portico—the signal is given. Who but an expectant maiden

could hear one so slight?

 

Hark! a sound! cautiously the lattice opens—above him blushes the fair

one! How brightly her dark eye flashes! how silver soft the tones of

her voice!

 

The stern father—the querulous mother—the tricked duenna—all—all

are slumbering. She leans forward, and her ear drinks in his honied

words; as her head is supported by her snowy arm.

 

And now he whispers more passionately. She answers not, but hides her

face in her hands. She starts! she throws back her hair from her brow;

she waves a white fazzolet, and is gone.

 

Not thus flies the lover. He crouches beneath the Ionic portico, his

figure hardly discernible. A bolt—the last bolt is withdrawn. A form is

dimly seen within—retiring, timid, repentant.

 

Sweet the task to calm that throbbing heart, or teach it to throb no

more with fear!

 

But let him of melancholy mood, wander to the deserted village. A more

fearful calamity has befallen it, than ever attended the soft shades, of

the one conjured up by the poet.

 

Here the demon Plague, with baneful wing, and pestilential influence,

tarried for many days; till not one—no! not one soul of that village

train—that did not join his bygone fathers.

 

Stray along its grass-grown roofless tenements! where your echo alone

breaks the silence, as it startles from its resting-place the slumbering

owl—for who would dwell in abodes so marked for destruction? Stray

there! think of the gentle contadina diffusing happiness around her!

then think of her as she supports the youth she loves—as she clasps

his faint form—and drinks in a poisonous contagion from his pallid lip.

 

Think of her as the disease seizes on its new victim—still

attempting to prop up his head—to reach the cup, that may relieve

his maddening thirst,—until, giddy and overpowered, she sinks at

last; but—beside him!

 

Think of their dying together! that at least is a solace.

 

Do not the scene and the thought draw a tear?

 

If your eye be dry, come—come away—your step should not sound there!

 

The wind continued fair during the whole of the first day. Every trace

of Valletta was soon lost; and the good barque Boston swept by the rocky

coast of the island, where few human habitations meet the eye, swiftly

and cheerily. The sea birds sported round the tall masts—the canvas

bulged out bravely—the Captain forgot his shore griefs, and commenced a

colloquy with Sir Henry. The sailors sung in chorus; whilst poor

Acmé,—we grieve to confess the fact, for never was a Mediterranean sea

looked down on by brighter sun, or more cloudless sky,—retired to her

cabin, supported by George, a prey to that unsentimental malady, sea

sickness. The following day, the wind shifted some points; and the

Captain judged it most prudent to forego his original intention of

steering direct for Palermo; but to take advantage of the breeze, and

adopt the passage through the Faro of Messina.

 

Delmé felt glad of this change; for Scylla and Charybdis to an

Englishman, are as familiar as Whittington and his cat. For the first

two days Acmé continued unwell; and George, who already appeared

improved by the sea air, never left her side.

 

Delmé had therefore a dull time of it; which he strove to enliven by

conversing, one after the other, with the Captain and his two mates.

From all of them, he learnt something; but from all he turned away, as

they commenced discussing the comparative merits of the United States,

and the old country; a subject he had neither the wish to enter on, nor

fortitude to prosecute. Not daunted, he attacked mate the third; and was

led to infer better things, as the young gentleman commenced expatiating

on the “purple sky,” and “dark blue sea.” This hope did not last long;

for this lover of nature turned round to Sir Henry, and asked him in a

nasal twang, if he preferred Cooper’s or Mr. Scott’s novels? Delmè was

not naturally a rude man, but as he turned away, he hummed something

very like Yankee-doodle.

 

And then the moon got up; and Sir Henry felt lonely and sentimental. He

leant over the vessel’s side, and watched it pictured on the ocean, and

quivering as the transient billow swept onwards. And he thought of home,

and Emily. He thought of his brother, his heir,—if he died, the only

male to inherit the ancient honours of his house,—married to a

stranger, and—but Acmé was too sweet a being, not to have already

enlisted all his sympathies with her. And as if all these thoughts, like

rays converged in a burning glass, did but tend to one object, the image

of Julia Vernon suddenly rose before him.

 

He saw her beautiful as ever—gentleness in her eye—fascination in

her smile!

 

And the air got cold—and he went to bed.

 

Chapter XIX.

 

A Dream and a Ghost Story.

 

“Touching this eye-creation;

What is it to surprise us? Here we are

Engendered out of nothing cognisable—

If this were not a wonder, nothing is;

If this be wonderful, then all is so.

Man’s grosser attributes can generate

What is not, and has never been at all;

What should forbid his fancy to restore

A being pass’d away? The wonder lies

In the mind merely of the wondering man.”

 

It was the fourth evening of the voyage. Hardly