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

the loved island.

 

Leaving the coffee-room, they were accosted by a driver of one of the

public coaches.

 

“Now, Signore! just in time for Vesuvius! See the sun rise! superb sight!

elegant carriage!”

 

“Do let us go!” said Acmé, clapping her hands with youthful enthusiasm.

 

“No, no! my dear!” said Sir Henry, “we must not think of it! you would be

so tired.”

 

“No, no! you do not know how strong I am; and I intend sleeping on

George’s shoulder all the way—and we are all in such high spirits—and

these improvised excursions you yourself granted were always best—and

besides, you know we must always start at this hour, if we expect to see

the sunrise from the mountain. What do you say, Giorgio?”

 

The discussion ended, by the driver taking the direction of the hotel;

whence, after making arrangements as to provisions and change of dress,

the party started for the mountain.

 

The warm cheek of Acmé was reposing on that of her husband; and the wanton

night air was disporting with her wavy tresses, as the loud halloo of the

driver, warned them that they were in Portici, and in the act of arousing

Salvador, the guide to the mountain. After some short delay, they procured

mules. Each brother armed himself with a long staff, and leaving the

carriage, they wended their way towards the Hermitage.

 

It was a clear night. The moon was majestically gliding on her path,

vassalled by myriads of stars.

 

There was something in the hour—and the scene—and the novelty of the

excursion—that enjoined silence.

 

Arrived at the Hermitage, the party dismounted. Acmé clung to the strap,

fastened round their guide, and they commenced the ascent. In a short

time, they had manifest proofs of their vicinity to the volcano. The

ashy lava gave way at each footstep, and it was only by taking short and

quick steps, and perseveringly toiling on, that they were enabled to

make any progress.

 

More than once, was Acmé inclined to stop, and take breath, but the guide

assured them they were already late, and that they would only just be in

time for the sunrise.

 

As the last of the party reached the summit, the sun became

perceptible—and rose in glory indescribable. The scene afar how gorgeous!

around them how grand!

 

Panting from their exertions, they sat on a cloak of Salvador’s, and gazed

with astonishment at the novelties bursting on the eye.

 

Each succeeding moment, gusts of flame issued forth from the crater.

 

They looked down on the bason, above which they were. From a conical

pyramid of lava, were emitted volumes of smoke, which rolled up to heaven

in rounded and fantastic shapes of beauty. Below, a deep azure—above, of

a clear amber hue—the clouds wreathed and ascended majestically, as if

in time to the rumbling thunder—the accompaniments of nature’s

subterraneous throes.

 

Their fatigues were amply repaid. Sir Henry’s curiosity was aroused, and

he descended with the guide to the crater. George and Acmé, delighted with

the excursion, remained on the summit, partaking of Salvador’s provisions.

 

The descent they found easy and rapid; the lava now assisting, as much as

it had formerly impeded them.

 

At Portici, Salvador introduced them to his apartment, embellished with

specimens of lava. They purchased some memorials of their visit—partook

of some fruit—and, after rewarding the guide, they returned to Naples.

 

Another of their excursions, and it is one than which there are few more

interesting, was to that city—which, like the fabulous one of the eastern

tale, rears its temples, but there are none to worship; its theatres, but

there are none to applaud; its marble statues, where are the eyes that

should dwell on them with pride? Its mansions are many—its walls and

tesselated pavements, show colours of vivid hue, and describe tales

familiar from our boyhood. The priest is at his altar—the soldiers in

their guard-room—the citizen in his bath. It is indeed difficult, as our

step re-echoes through the silent streets, to divest ourselves of the

impression, that we are wandering where the enchanter’s wand has been all

powerful, that he has waved it, and lo! the city sleeps for a season,

until some event shall have been fulfilled.

 

Our party were in the Via Appia of Pompeii, when Acmé turned aside, to

remark one tomb more particularly. It was an extensive one, surrounded

with a species of iron net work, through which might be seen ranges of red

earthen vases. Acme turned to the custode, and asked if this was the

burial place of some noble family.

 

“No! Signora! this is where the ashes of the gladiators are preserved.”

 

From the Appian Way, they entered through the public gate; and passing

many shops, whose signs yet draw notice, if they no longer attract custom,

they came to the private houses, and entered one—that called

Sallust’s—for the purpose of a more minute inspection.

 

“Nothing appears to be more strange,” said George, “on looking at these

frescoed paintings, and on such mosaics as we have yet seen; than the

extraordinary familiarity of their subjects.

 

“There are many depicted on these walls, and I do not think, Henry, we

are first rate classics;—and yet it would be difficult to puzzle us, in

naming the story whence these frescoes have their birth. Look at this

Latona—and Leda—and the Ariadne abbandonata—and this must certainly be

the blooming Hebe. Ah! and look at this little niche! This grinning little

deity—the facsimile of an Indian idol—must express their idea of the

Penates. Strange! is it not?”

 

“But are you not,” rejoined Sir Henry, “somewhat disappointed in the

dwelling-houses? This seems one of the most extensive, and yet, how

diminutive the rooms! and how little of attraction in the whole

arrangement, if we except this classic fountain.

 

“This I think is a proof, that the ancient Romans must have chiefly passed

their day abroad—in the temples—the forum—or the baths—and have left

as home tenants none but women, and those unadorned with the toga virilis.

 

“These habits may have tended to engender a manlier independence; and

to impart to their designs a loftier spirit of enterprise. What say

you, Acmé?”

 

“I might perhaps answer,” replied Acmé, “that the happiness gained, is

well worth the glory lost. But I must not fail to remind you, that—grand

as this nation must have been—my poor fallen one was its precursor—its

tutor—and its model.”

 

Hence they wandered to the theatre—the forum—the pantheon—and

amphitheatre:—which last, from their converse in the earlier part of the

day—fancy failed not to fill with daring combatants. As the guide

pointed out the dens for the wild beasts—the passages through which they

came—and the arena for the combat—Sir Henry, like most British

travellers, recalled the inimitable story of Thraso, and his lion fight.

[Footnote: In Valerius.]

 

The following day was devoted to the Studio, and to the inspection of the

relics of Pompeii.

 

These relics, interesting as they are, yet convey a melancholy lesson to

the contemplative mind. Each modern vanity here has its parallel—each

luxury its archetype. Here may be found the cameoed ring—and the signet

seal—and the bodkin—and paint for the frail one’s cheek—a cuirass, that

a life guardsman might envy—weights—whose elegance of shape charm the

eye. Not an article of modern convenience or of domestic comfort, that has

not its representative. They teach us the trite French lesson.

 

“L’histoire se répète.”

 

With the exception of these two excursions, and one to Poestum; our

travellers passed their mornings sight-seeing in Naples, and chiefly at

the Studio, whose grand attraction is the thrilling group of the

Taureau Farnese.

 

In the cool of the evening, until twilight’s hour was past, they drove

into the country, or promenaded in the gardens of the Villa Reale, to the

sound of the military band.

 

Each night they turned their footsteps towards the Mole; where they

embarked on the unruffled bay. To a young and loving heart—the heart of a

bride—no pleasure can equal that, of being next the one loved best on

earth—at night’s still witching hour. The peculiar scenery of Naples, yet

more enhances such pleasure.

 

Elsewhere night may boast its azure vault and its silver stars. Cynthia

may ride the heavens in majesty—the water may be serene—and the heart

attuned to the night’s beauty:—but from the land, if discernible—we

can rarely expect much addition to the charms of the scene, and can never

expect it to form its chief attraction. At Naples it is otherwise.

 

Our eyes turn to the Volcano, whose flame, crowning the mountain’s summit,

crimsons the sky.

 

We watch with undiminished interest, its fitful action—now bursting out

brilliantly—now fading, as if about to be extinguished for ever. Seated

beside George, and thus gazing, what pleasure was Acmé‘s! We need not say

time flew swiftly. Never did happiness meet with more ardent votary than

in that young bride—or find a more ready mirror, on which to reflect her

beaming attributes—than on the features of that bride’s husband.

 

Their swimming eyes would fill with tears—and their voices sink to the

lowest whisper.

 

Sir Henry rarely interrupted their converse; but leant his head on the

boat’s side, and thoughtfully gazed on the placid waters, till he almost

deemed he saw reflected on its surface, the face of one, in whose society

he felt he too might be blest.

 

But these fancies would not endure long. Delmé would quickly arouse

himself; and, warned by the lateness of the hour, and feeling the

necessity that existed, for his thinking for the all-engrossed pair, would

order the rowers to direct the boat’s course homewards.

 

Returned to their hotel, it may be that orisons more heavenward, have

issued from hearts more pure.

 

Few prayers more full of gratitude, have been whispered by earthly

lips, than were breathed by George and his young wife in the solitude

of their chamber.

 

How often is such uncommon happiness as this the precursor of evil!

 

Chapter II.

 

The Doctor.

 

“Son port, son air de suffisance,

Marquent dans son savoir sa noble confiance.

Dans les doctes debats ferme et rempli de coeur,

Même après sa défaite il tient tête an vainqueur.

Voyez, pour gagner temps, quelles lenteurs savantes,

Prolongent de ses mots les syllabes traînantes!

Tout le monde l’admire, et ne peut concevoir

Que dans un cerveau seul loge tant de savoir.”

 

It was soon after the excursion to Poestum, that a packet of letters

reached the travellers from Malta. These letters had been forwarded from

England, on the intelligence reaching Emily, of George’s intended

marriage. They had been redirected to Naples, by Colonel Vavasour, and

were accompanied by a few lines from himself.

 

In Sir Henry’s communication with his sister, he had prudently thrown a

veil, over the distressing part of George’s story, and had dwelt warmly,

on the beauty and sweetness of temper of Acmé Frascati. He could hardly

hope that the proposed marriage, would meet with the entire approval of

those, to whom he addressed himself.

 

The letters in reply, however, only breathed the affectionate overflowings

of kind hearts. Mrs. Glenallan sent her motherly blessing to George; and

Emily, in addition to a long communication to her brother, wrote to Acmé

as to a beloved sister; begging her to hasten George’s return to England,

that they might meet one, in whom they must henceforward feel the

liveliest interest.

 

“How kind they all are,” said George. “I only wish we were with them.”

 

“And so do I,” said Acmé. “How dearly I shall love them all.”

 

“George!” said Sir Henry, abruptly, “do you know, I think it is quite time

we should move farther north. The weather is getting most oppressive; and

we have