A Love Story, by a Bushman by - (classic literature books TXT) đ
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tear, looked out on the home of her ancestors.
There let us leave her; and turn to bid adieu for a season, to one, who
for many a weary day, was doomed to undergo the pangs of blighted
affection. Such pangs are but too poignant and enduring, let the
worldly man say what he may. Could we but read the history of the
snarling cynic, blind to this worldâs goodâof him, who from being the
deceived, has become the deceiverâof the rash sensualist, who plunging
into vice, thinks he can forget;âcould we but know the train of
events, that have brought the stamping madman to his barsâand his
cellâand his realms of phantasy;âor search the breast of her, who
lets concealment âfeed on her damask cheekââwho prays blessings on
him, who hath wasted her youthful charmsâthen mounts with virgin soul
to heaven:âwe, in our turn, might sneer at the worldling, and pin our
fate on the tale of the peasant girl, who discourses so glibly of
crossed love and broken hearts.
Sir Henry Delmé left England with very unenviable sensations. A cloud
seemed to hang over the fate of his brother, which no speculations of
his could pierce. Numberless were the conjectures he formed, as to the
real causes of Georgeâs sickness and mental depression. It was in vain
he re-read the letters, and varied his comments on their contents. It
was evident, that nothing but his actual presence in Malta, could
unravel the mystery. Sir Henry had one consolation; how great, let
those judge who have had aught dear placed in circumstances at all
similar. He had a confidence in Georgeâs character, which entirely
relieved him from any fear that the slightest taint could have infected
it. But an act of imprudence might have destroyed his peace of
mindâsickness have wasted his body. Nor was his uncertainty regarding
George, DelmĂ©âs only cause of disquiet. When he thought of Julia
Vernon, there was a consequent internal emotion, that he could not
subdue. He endeavoured to forget herâher image haunted him. He
meditated on his past conduct; and at times it occurred to him, that
the resolutions he had formed, were not the result of reason, but were
based on pride and prejudice. He thought of her as he had last seen
her. Now she spoke with enthusiasm of the bright stars of heaven;
anon, her eye glistened with piety, as she showed how the feeling these
created, was but subservient to a nobler one still. Again, he was
beside her in the moment of maiden agony; when low accents faltered
from her quivering lip, and the hand that rested on his arm, trembled
from her heartâs emotion.
Such were the bitter fancies that assailed him, as he left his own, and
reached a foreign land. They cast a shadow on his brow, which change of
scene possessed no charm to dispel. He hurried on to Franceâs capital,
and only delaying till he could get his passports signed, hastened from
Paris to Marseilles.
On his arrival at the latter place, his first enquiries were, as to the
earliest period that a vessel would sail for Malta. He was pointed out a
small yacht in the harbour, which belonging to the British government,
had lately brought over a staff officer with despatches.
A courier from England had that morning arrivedâthe vessel was about to
returnâher canvas was already loosenedâthe blue Peter streaming in the
wind. Delmé hesitated not an instant, but threw himself into a boat, and
was rowed alongside. The yachtâs commander was a lieutenant in our
service, although a Maltese by birth. He at once entered into Sir
Henryâs views, and felt delighted at the prospect of a companion in his
voyage. A short time elapsedâthe anchor was upâthe white sails began
to fillâSir Henry was once more on the wide sea.
What a feeling of loneliness, almost of despair, infects the landsmanâs
mind, as he recedes from an unfamiliar portâsees crowds watching
listlessly his vesselâs departureâcrowds, of whom not one feels an
interest in his fate; and then, turning to the little world within,
beholds but faces he knows not, persons he wots not of!
But to one whose home is the ocean, such are not the emotions which
its expanse of broad waters calls forth. To such an one, each plank
seems a friend; the vessel, a refuge from the world and its cares.
Trusting himself to its guidance, deceit wounds him no moreâ
hollow-hearted friendship proffers not its hand to stingâlove
exercises not its fatal sorceryâfoes are afarâand his heart, if not
the waves, is comparatively at peace. And oh! the wonders of the deep!
Ocean! tame is the soul that loves not thee! grovelling the mind that
scorns the joys thou impartest! To lean our head on the vesselâs side,
and in idleness of spirit ponder on bygone scene, that has brought us
anything but happiness,âto gaze on the curling waves, as impelled by
the boisterous wind, we ride oâer the angry waters, lashed by the sable
keel to a yeasty madness,âto look afar upon the disturbed billow,
presenting its crested head like the curved neck of the war
horse,âthen to mark the screaming sea bird, as, his bright eye
scanning the waters, he soars above the stormy mainâits wide tumult
his delightâthe roaring of the winds his melodyâthe shrieks of the
drowned an harmonious symphony to the hoarse diapason of the deep! All
these things may awake reflections, which are alike futile and
transitory; but they are accompanied by a mental excitement, which land
scenes, however glorious, always fail to impart.
DelmĂ©âs voyage was not unpropitious, although the yacht was frequently
baffled by contrary winds, which prevented the passage being very
speedy. During the day, the weather was ordinarily blustering, at times
stormy; but with the setting sun, it seemed that tranquillity came; for
during the nights, which were uncommonly fine, gentle breezes continued
to fill the sails, and their vessel made tardy but sure progress. Henry
would sit on deck till a late hour, lost in reverie. There would he
remain, until each idle mariner was sunk to rest; and nothing but the
distant tread of the wakeful watch, or the short cough of the helmsman,
bespoke a sentinel over the habitation on the waters. How would the
recollections of his life crowd upon him!âthe loss of his parentâthe
worldâs first openingâbitter partingsâpainful misgivingsâthe lone
bivouacâthe marshalling of squadronsâthe fierce chargeâthe
excitement of victory, whose charm was all but flown, for where were the
comrades who had fought beside him? These things were recalled, and
brought with them alternate pain and pleasure. And a less remote era of
his life would be presented him; when he tasted the welcome of homeâsaw
hands uplifted in gratitudeâwas cheered by a brotherâs greeting, and
subdued by a sisterâs kiss. But there was a thought, which let him
dwell as he might on others, remained the uppermost of all. It was of
Julia Vernon, and met him as a reproach. If his feelings were not of
that enthusiastic nature, which they might have been were he now in his
green youth, they were not on this account the less intense. They were
coloured by the energy of manhood. He had lost a portion of his
self-respect: for he knew that his conduct had been vacillating with
regard to one, whom each traversed league, each fleeting hour, proved to
be yet dearer than he had deemed her.
In the first few days of their passage, the winds shaped their vesselâs
course towards the Genoese gulf. They then took a direction nearly
south, steering between Corsica and Sardinia on the one handâItaly on
the other.
DelmĂ© had an opportunity of noting the outward aspect of Napoleonâs
birth-place; and still more nearly, that of its opposite island, which
also forms so memorable a link in the history of that demi-god of modern
times. How could weaker spirits deem that there, invested with
monarchyâs semblance, the ruler of the petty isle could forget that he
had been master of the world?
How think that diplomacyâs cobweb fibre could hold the eagle, panting
for an upward flight?
They fearfully misjudged! What a transcendent light did his star give,
as it shot through the appalled heavens, ere it sunk for ever in
endless night!
The commander of the yacht pointed out the rock, which is traditionally
said to be the one, on which Napoleon has been representedâhis arms
foldedâwatching intently the oceanâand ambitionâs votary gleaning his
moral from the stormy waves below. As they advanced farther in their
course, other associations were not wanting; and Delmé, whose mind,
like that of most Englishmen, was deeply tinctured with classic lore,
was not insensible to their charms. They swept by the Latian coast.
Every creek and promontory, attested the fidelity of the poetâs
description, by vividly recalling it to the mind. On the seventh day,
they doubled Cape Maritime, on the western coast of Sicily; and two
days afterwards, the vessel neared what has been styled the abode of
Calypso, the island of Gozzo. As they continued to advance, picturesque
trading boats, with awnings and numerous rowers, became more
frequentâthe low land appearedâthey were signalled from the
palaceâthe point of St. Elmo was turnedâand a wide forest of masts
met the gaze. The vessel took up her moorings; and in the novelty of
the scene, and surrounding bustle, Sir Henry for a time rested from
misgivings, and forgot his real causes for melancholy. The harbour of
Malta is not easily forgotten. The sun was just sinking, tinging with
hues of amber, the usually purple waters of the harbour, and bronzing
with its fiery orb, the batteries and lofty Baraca, where lie entombed
the remains of Sir Thomas Maitland. Between the Baracaâs pillars,
might be discerned many a faldette, with pretty face beneath, peering
over to mark the little yacht, as she took her station, amidst the more
gigantic line of battle ships.
The native boatmen, in their gilded barks with high prows, were seen
surrounding the vessel; and as they exerted themselves in passing each
other, their dress and action had the most picturesque appearance. Their
language, a corrupted Arabic, is not unpleasing to the ear; and their
costume is remarkably graceful. A red turban hangs droopingly on one
side, and their waistcoats are loaded with large silver buttons, the
only remains of their uncommon wealth during the war, when this little
island was endowed with a fictitious importance, it can never hope to
resume. Just as the yacht cast anchor, a gun from the saluting battery
was fired. It was the signal for sunset, and every flag was lowered.
Down came in most seaman-like style the proud flag of merry Englandâthe
then spotless banner of Franceâand the great cross, hanging
ungracefully, over the stout, but clumsy, Russian man of war. All these
flags were then in the harbour of Valletta, although it was not at that
eventful time whenâthe Moslem humbledâthey met with the cordiality of
colleagues in victory.
The harbour was full of vessels. Every nation had its representative.
The intermediate spaces were studded by Maltese boats, crowded with
passengers indiscriminately mingled. The careless English soldier, with
scarlet coat and pipe-clayed beltâpriests and friarsâMaltese women in
national costume sat side by side. Occasionally, a gig, pulled by man of
warâs men, might be seen making towards the town, with one or more
officers astern, whose glittering epaulettes announced them as either
diners out, or amateurs of the opera. The scene to Delmé was entirely
novel; although it had previously been his lot to scan more than one
foreign country.
The arrival of the health officers was the first circumstance that
diverted his mind from the surrounding scene. There had been an epidemic
disease at Marseilles, and there
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