A Love Story
Acmé was happy to leave the scene, and move towards the garden; which
was extensive, and beautifully laid out.
As they turned down one of the alleys, they encountered five or six men,
drawn up in line, and armed with wooden muskets.
In front stood Napoleon, who, with stentorian voice, gave the word to
"present arms!" then dropping his stick, and taking off his hat to
Delmé, began to converse familiarly with him, as with his friend Emperor
Alexander, as to the efficiency of Poniatowski and his Polish lancers.
"Poor fellow!" said the Baron, as they moved on. "Never was insanity
more harmless! He was once brigade major to Murat. This is his hour for
exercise. Exactly at two, he goes through the scene of Fontainbleau,
What will appear to you extraordinary is, that over the five or six men
you saw around him, whose madness has been marked by few distinguishing
traits, he has gradually assumed a superiority, until they now believe
him to be, in reality, the Emperor he so unconsciously personates."
In the garden, which was of considerable size, were placed a number of
swings and whirligigs, in full motion and occupancy.
On a stuccoed wall, were represented grotesque figures of animals
dancing; opposite to which, one of Terpsichore's votaries, with a
paper cap on his head, shaped like a pyramid, was executing agile
capers, whose zeal of purpose would have found infinite favour in the
eyes of Laporte.
Having explored the garden, Delmé accompanied the Baron to a small room,
where the sculls of the deceased maniacs were ranged on shelves, with a
small biographical note attached to each; and heard with attention, the
old man's energetic reasoning, as to these fully demonstrating the truth
of Spurzheim's theory.
Acmé, meantime, remained on George's arm, talking to a girl of
thirteen, who had been selected to conduct them to the carriage.
They entered their names in a book at the lodge, and then, turning to
the benevolent director, paid him some well deserved compliments, for
which he bowed low and often.
The young girl, who had been conversing most rationally with Acmé, moved
forward, and made a signal for the carriage to drive up.
She was a fair-haired gentle-looking creature, with quiet eye, and
silvery voice. She assisted Acmé to step into the carriage, who
dropped a piece of silver into her hand, for which she gave a sweet
smile and a curtsey.
She stood a moment motionless. Suddenly her eye lighted up--she darted
into the carriage, and clapped her hands together joyfully.
"Viva! viva! we shall soon be home at Trapani!"
The tears sprang to the eyes of the young Greek.
Even the driver and cicerone were moved.
Acmé took some flowers from her zone--kissed her cheek--and tried to
change the current of her thoughts; but it was not till the driver
promised he would call again, at the same hour the following day, that
she consented with a sigh to relinquish her journey home.
From the Lunatic Asylum, our party adjourned to the Duomo, and beheld
the coffin, where the revered body of the Palermitan Saint, attracts
many a devout Catholic.
Sweet Rosalia! thy story is a pretty one--thy festa beauteous--the
fireworks in thy honour most bright. No wonder the fair Sicilians 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.