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

adore

thy memory.

 

In the cool of the evening, our travellers drove to the Marina; where

custom—the crowded assemblage—and the grateful sea breeze—nightly

attract the gay inhabitants of Palermo.

 

The carriages, with their epauletted chasseurs, swept on in giddy

succession, and made a scene quite as imposing as is witnessed in most

European capitals.

 

Delmé did not think it advisable, to remain too long in the metropolis

of Sicily; and the travellers contented themselves, with the

sight-seeing of the immediate neighbourhood.

 

They admired the mosaics of the Chiesa di Monte Reale; and fed the

pheasants, at that beautiful royal villa, well styled “the Favourite.”

They took a boat to witness the tunny fishery; and Sir Henry explored

alone the vast catacombs—that city of the dead.

 

After a few days thus passed—the weather continuing uncommonly

fine—they did not hesitate to engage one of the small vessels of the

place, to convey them to Naples.

 

After enjoying their evening drive as usual, they embarked on board the

Sparonara, one fine starry night, in order to get the full advantage of

the favouring night breeze.

 

End of the First Volume.

 

A Love Story

 

by

 

A Bushman.

 

Vol. II.

 

“My thoughts, like swallows, skim the main,

And bear my spirit back again

Over the earth, and through the air,

A wild bird and a wanderer.”

 

1841.

 

A Love Story.

 

Chapter I.

 

Naples.

 

“And be it mine to muse there, mine to glide

From day-break when the mountain pales his fire,

Yet more and more, and from the mountain top,

Till then invisible, a smoke ascends,

Solemn and slow.”

 

“Vedi Napoli! e poi muori!”

 

Memory! beloved memory! to us thou art as hope to other men. The

present—solitary, unexciting—where are its charms? The future hath no

joys in store for us; and may bereave us of some of the few faint

pleasures that still are ours.

 

What then is left us—old before our time—but to banquet on the past?

 

Memory! thou art in us, as the basil of the enamoured

Florentine. [Footnote 1: See Keats’ poem taken from Boccaccio.] Thy

blossoms, thy leaves,—green, fresh, and fragrant,—draw their nurture,

receive their every colouring, from what was dearest to us on earth. And

are they not watered by our tears?

 

The poet tells us—

 

“Nessun maggior dolore

Che ricordarsi del tempo felice

Nella miseria.”

 

But it is not so. Where is he of the tribe of the unfortunate, who would

not gladly barter the contemplation of present wretchedness, for the

remembrance, clogged as it is by a thousand woes, of a time when joyous

visions flitted across life’s path?

 

Yes! though the contrast, the succeeding moment, should cut him to the

soul.

 

But

 

“Joy’s recollection is no longer joy,

Whilst sorrow’s memory is a sorrow still.”

 

Ah! there’s the rub! yet, better to think it was joy, than gaze unveiled

on the cold reality around; than view the wreck—the grievous wreck—a

few short years have made.

 

We care not,—and, alas! to such as we have in our mind’s eye, these are

the only cases allowed,—we care not! whether rapture has been succeeded

by apathy, or whether the feelings continue as deeply enlisted—the

thoughts as intensely concentrated;—but—in the servitude of despair!

 

And again we say—gentle memory! let us dream over our past joys! ay! and

brood over our sorrows—undeserved—as in this hour of solitude, we may

justly deem them.

 

Yes! let us again live over our days of suffering, and deem it wiser to

steep our soul in tears, than let it freeze with an iced coating of cynic

miscalled philosophy.

 

And shall adversity—that touchstone—softened as our hearts shall thus

be—shall it pass over us, and improve us not?

 

No! it has purifying and cleansing qualities; and for us, it has them

not in vain.

 

We are not dust, to be more defiled by water; nor are we as the turbid

stream, which passing over driven snow, becomes more impure by the

close contact.

 

Thee, Mnemosyne! let us still adore; content rather to droop, fade, and

die—martyrs to thee! than linger on as beasts of the forest, that know

thee not. No hope may be ours to animate the future: let us still cling to

thee, though thine influence sadden the past.

 

Away! we are on the placid sea! and Naples lies before us.

 

The sun had just risen from ocean’s bed, attired in his robe of gold; as

our travellers watched from the deck of their Sparonara, to catch the

first view of the “garden of the world,” as the Neapolitans fondly style

their city,

 

A dim haze was abroad, the mists were slowly stealing up the mountains, as

their vessel glided on; a light breeze anon filling its canvas, then dying

away, and leaving the sails to flap against the loosened cordage.

 

On their left, extended the charming heights of Posilipo–the classic

site of Baia—Pozzuoli—Nisida—and Ischia, to be reverenced for its wine.

 

On their right, Capra’s isle and Portici—and Vesuvius—wreathed in

vapour, presented themselves.

 

As their vessel held on her way, Naples became visible—its turrets capt

by a solitary cloud, which had not yet acknowledged the supremacy of the

rising deity.

 

The effulgence of the city was dimmed, but it was lovely still,—as a

diamond, obscured by a passing breath; or woman’s eye, humid from

pity’s tear.

 

“And this,” said Sir Henry, for it happened that his travels in Italy had

not extended so far south, “this is Naples! and this sea view the second

finest in the world!”

 

“Which is the first?” said Acmé, laughing, “not in England, I trust; for

we foreigners do not invest your island with beauty’s attributes.”

 

“My dear Acmé!” replied Sir Henry, somewhat gravely, “I trust the day may

arrive, when you will deem Delmé Park, with its mansion bronzed by

time—its many hillocks studded with ancient trees—its glistening brook,

and hoary gateways—its wooded avenue, where the rooks have built for

generations—its verdant glades, where the deer have long found a

home:—when you will consider all these, as forming as fair a prospect, as

ever eye reposed on. But I did not allude at the time to England; but to

the Turkish capital. George! I remember your glowing description of your

trip in Mildmay’s frigate, up the Dardanelles. What comparison would you

make between the two scenes?”

 

“I confess to have been much disappointed,” replied George, “in my first

view of Stamboul; and even the beauty of the passage to the Dardanelles,

seemed to me to have been exaggerated. But what really did strike me, as

being the most varied, the most interesting scenery I had ever witnessed,

was that which greeted us, on an excursion we made in a row boat, from the

Bosphorus into the Black Sea.

 

“There all my floating conceptions of Oriental luxury, and of Moslem pomp,

were more than realised.

 

“The elegant kiosks—the ornamented gardens—the pinnacled harems, the

entrance to which lofty barriers jealously guarded—the number of the

tombs in their silent cities–gave an intense interest to the Turkish

coast;—while sumptuous barges, filled with veiled women, swept by us, and

gave a fairy charm to the sea. On our return, we were nearly lost from our

ignorance of the current, which is rapid and dangerous.”

 

“Well! I am glad to hear such a smiling account of Stamboul,” rejoined

Acmé. “My feelings regarding it have been quite Grecian. It has always

been to me a sort of Ogre city.”

 

The breeze began to freshen, and the vessel made way fast.

 

As they neared the termination of their voyage, some church, or casino

bedecked with statues, or fertile glen, whose sides blushed with the

luscious grape, opened at every instant, and drew forth their admiration.

 

Their little vessel swung to her anchor.

 

The busy hum of the restless inhabitants, and the joyous toll of the

churches, announcing one of the never-failing Neapolitan processions, was

borne on the breeze.

 

The whole party embarked for the quarantine office, and—once authorised

to join the throng of Naples—soon found themselves in the Strada Toledo,

moving towards the Santa Lucia.

 

Their hotel was near the mole; its windows commanding an extensive view of

the purple sea, beyond which the eye took in the changeful volcano; and

many a vista—sunny, smiling, and beauteous enough, for the exacting fancy

of an Englishman, who conjures up for an Italian landscape, marble-like

villas—and porticoes, where grapes cluster, in festoons of the

vine—heaving mountains—a purple sky—faces bronzed, but oh how

fair!—and song, revelry, and grace.

 

But what struck Acmé, and even Sir Henry, who was more inured to the whirl

of cities, as the characteristical feature of Naples, was its moving life.

In the streets, there was an incessant bustle from morning until midnight.

Each passer by wore an air of importance, almost amounting to a

consciousness of happiness. There was fire in the glance—speech in the

action—on the lip a ready smile.

 

In no city of Italy, does care seem more misplaced. The noble rolls on in

his vehicle on the Corso, with features gay and self-possessed; while the

merry laugh of the beggar—as he feasts on the lengthened honors of his

Macaroni—greets the ear at every turn. Stray not there! oh thou with brow

furrowed by anguish!

 

If thy young affections have been blighted—if hope fondly indulged, be

replaced by despair—if feelings that lent their roseate hue, to the

commonest occurrences of life, now darken every scene—if thou knowest

thyself the accessary to this, thy misery, stray not in Naples, all too

joyous for thee!

 

Rather haunt the shrines of the world’s ancient mistress! Perchance the

sunken pillar—and the marble torso—and the moss-grown edifice—and the

sepulchre, with the owl as tenant—and the thought that the great, the

good, and the talented, who reared these fading monuments—are silent and

mouldering below: mayhap these things will speak to thy heart, and repress

the full gush of a sorrow that may not be controlled! And if—the martyr

to o’er-sicklied refinement—to sentiment too etherialised for the world,

where God hath placed thee—ideal woes have stamped a wrinkle on the brow,

and ideal dreams now constitute thy pleasure and thy bane: for such as

thou art! living on feeling’s excess—soaring to rapture’s heights—or

sinking to despair’s abyss—Naples is not fitting!

 

Visit the city of the sea! there indulge thy shapeless imaginings—with no

sound to break thy day dreams—save the shrill cry of the gondolier, and

the splash of his busy oar.

 

The young Greek, Delmé, and George, were soon immersed in the round of

sight seeing.

 

Visits to the ancient palace of Queen Joanna—to the modern villa of the

Margravine—to the Sibyl’s Cave, and to Maro’s Tomb—to some sites that

owed their interest to classic associations—to others that claimed it

from present beauty—wiled away days swiftly and pleasurably.

 

What with youth, change of scene, and an Italian sky, George was no

longer an invalid. His eye wore neither the film of apathy, nor the

unnatural flush of delirium; but smiled its happiness on all, and beamed

its love on Acmé.

 

One night they were at the Fondo, and after listening delightedly to

Lalande, and following with quick glance, the rapid movements of the agile

ballerina, and after George had been honoured by a bow—which greatly

amused Acmé—from the beautiful princess; who, poor girl! then felt a

penchant for Englishmen, which she failed not to avow from her opera

box—the party agreed to walk home to the hotel. On their way, they turned

into a coffee-room to take ice.

 

The fluent waiter prattled over his catalogue; and Acmé selected his

“sorbetto Maltese,” because the name reminded her of