Chapter I.

Produced by Distributed Proofreaders

A Love Story

by

A Bushman.

Vol. I.

"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.

To

Lady Gipps

This Work Is Respectfully Inscribed,

By

A Grateful Friend.

Preface.

The author of these pages considered that a lengthened explanation might

be necessary to account for the present work.

He had therefore, at some length, detailed the motives that influenced

him in its composition. He had shown that as a solitary companionless

bushman, it had been a pleasure to him in his lone evenings

"To create, and in creating live

A being more intense."

He had expatiated on the love he bears his adopted country, and had

stated that he was greatly influenced by the hope that although

"Sparta hath many a worthier son than he,"

this work might be the humble cornerstone to some enduring and highly

ornamented structure.

The author however fortunately remembered, that readers have but little

sympathy with the motives of authors; but expect that their works should

amuse or instruct them. He will therefore content himself, with giving a

quotation from one of those old authors, whose "well of English

undefined" shames our modern writers.

He intreats that the indulgence prayed for by the learned Cowell may be

accorded to his humble efforts.

"My true end is the advancement of knowledge, and therefore have I

published this poor work, not only to impart the good thereof, to those

young ones that want it, but also to draw from the learned, the supply

of my defects.

"Whosoever will charge these travails with many oversights, he shall need

no solemn pains to prove them.

"And upon the view taken of this book sithence the impression, I dare

assure them, that shall observe most faults therein, that I, by gleaning

after him, will gather as many omitted by him, as he shall shew

committed by me.

"What a man saith well is not, however, to be rejected, because he hath

some errors; reprehend who will, in God's name, that is, with sweetness,

and without reproach.

"So shall he reap hearty thanks at my hands, and thus more soundly help

in a few months, than I by tossing and tumbling my books at home, could

possibly have done in some years."

A Love Story

Chapter I.

The Family.

"It was a vast and venerable pile."

"Oh, may'st thou ever be as now thou art,

Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring."

The mansion in which dwelt the Delmés was one of wide and extensive

range. Its centre slightly receded, leaving a wing on either side.

Fluted ledges, extending the whole length of the building, protruded

above each story. These were supported by quaint heads of satyr, martyr,

or laughing triton. The upper ledge, which concealed the roof from

casual observers, was of considerably greater projection. Placed above

it, at intervals, were balls of marble, which, once of pure white, had

now caught the time-worn hue of the edifice itself. At each corner of

the front and wings, the balls were surmounted by the family device--the

eagle with extended wing. One claw closed over the stone, and the bird

rode it proudly an' it had been the globe. The portico, of a pointed

Gothic, would have seemed heavy, had it not been lightened by glass

doors, the vivid colours of which were not of modern date. These

admitted to a capacious hall, where, reposing on the wide-spreading

antlers of some pristine tenant of the park, gleamed many a piece of

armour that in days of yore had not been worn ingloriously.

The Delmé family was an old Norman one, on whose antiquity a peerage

could have conferred no new lustre. At the period when the aristocracy

of Great Britain lent themselves to their own diminution of

importance, by the prevalent system of rejecting the poorer class of

tenantry, in many instances the most attached,--the consequence was

foreseen by the then proprietor of Delmé Park, who, spurning the

advice of some interested few around him, continued to foster those

whose ancestors had served his. The Delmés were thus enabled to

retain--and they deserved it--that fair homage which rank and property

should ever command. As a family they were popular, and as individuals

universally beloved.

At the period we speak of, the Delmé family consisted but of three

members: the baronet, Sir Henry Delmé; his brother George, some ten

years his junior, a lieutenant in a light infantry regiment at Malta;

and one sister, Emily, Emily Delmé was the youngest child; her mother

dying shortly after her birth. The father, Sir Reginald Delmé, a man of

strong feelings and social habits, never recovered this blow. Henry

Delmé was barely fifteen when he was called to the baronetcy and to the

possession of the Delmé estates. It was found that Sir Reginald had been

more generous than the world had given him credit for, and that his

estates were much encumbered. The trustees were disposed to rest

contented with paying off the strictly legal claims during Sir Henry's

minority. This the young heir would not accede to. He waited on his

most influential guardian--told him he was aware his father, from

hospitality and good nature, had incurred obligations which the law did

not compel his son to pay; but which he could not but think that equity

and good feeling did. He begged that these might be added to the other

claims, and that the trustees would endeavour to procure him a

commission in the army. He was gazetted to a cornetcy; and entered life

at an age when, if the manlier traits are ready to be developed, the

worthless ones are equally sure to unfold themselves. Few of us that

have not found the first draught of life intoxicate! Few of us that have

not then run wild, as colts that have slipped their bridle!

Experience--that mystic word--is wanting; the retrospect of past years

wakes no sigh; expectant youth looks forward to future ones without a

shade of distrust. The mind is elastic--the body vigorous and free from

pain; and it is then youth inwardly feels, although not daring to avow

it, the almost total impossibility that the mind should wax less

vigorous, or the body grow helpless, and decay.

But Sir Henry was cast in a finer mould, nor did his conduct at this

dangerous period detract from this his trait of boyhood. He joined his

regiment when before the enemy, and, until he came of age, never drew on

his guardians for a shilling. Delmé's firmness of purpose, and his after

prudence, met with their due reward. The family estates became wholly

unencumbered, and Sir Henry was enabled to add to the too scanty

provision of his sister, as well as to make up to George, on his

entering the army, a sum more than adequate to all his wants. These

circumstances were enough to endear him to his family; and, in truth,

amidst all its members, there prevailed a confidence and an unanimity

which were never for an instant impaired. There was one consequence,

however, of Sir Henry Delmé's conduct that _he_, at the least, foresaw

not, but which was gradually and unconsciously developed. In pursuing

the line of duty he had marked out--in acting up to what he knew was

right--his mind became _too_ deeply impressed with the circumstances

which had given rise to his determination. It overstepped its object.

The train of thought, to which necessity gave birth, continued to

pervade when that necessity no longer existed. His wish to re-establish

his house grew into an ardent desire to aggrandize it. His ambition

appeared a legitimate one. It grew with his years, and increased with

his strength.

Many a time, on the lone bivouac, when home presents itself in its

fairest colours to the soldier's mind, would Delmé's prayer be embodied,

that his house might again be elevated, and that his descendants might

know _him_ as the one to whom they were indebted for its rise. Delmé's

ambitious thoughts were created amidst dangers and toil, in a foreign

land, and far from those who shared his name. But his heart swelled high

with them as he again trod his native soil in peace--as he gazed on the

home of his fathers, and communed with those nearest and dearest to him

on earth. Sir Henry considered it incumbent on him to exert every means

that lay in his power to promote his grand object. A connection that

promised rank and honours, seemed to him an absolute essential that was

worth any sacrifice. Sir Henry never allowed himself to look for, or

give way to, those sacred sympathies, which the God of nature hath

implanted in the breasts of all of us. Delmé had arrived at middle age

ere a feeling incompatible with his views arose. But his had been a

dangerous experiment. Our hearts or minds, or whatever it may be that

takes the impression, resemble some crystalline lake that mirrors the

smallest object, and heightens its beauty; but if it once gets muddied

or ruffled, the most lovely object ceases to be reflected in its waters.

By the time that lake is clear again, the fairy form that ere while

lingered on its bosom is fled for ever.

Thus much in introducing the head of the family. Let us now attempt to

sketch the gentle Emily.

Emily Delmé was not an ordinary being. To uncommon talents, and a mind

of most refined order, she united great feminine propriety, and a total

absence of those arts which sometimes characterise those to whom the

accident of birth has given importance. With unerring discrimination,

she drew the exact line between vivacity and satire, true religion and

its semblance. She saw through and pitied those who, pluming themselves

on the faults of others, and imparting to the outward man the ascetic

inflexibility of the inner one, would fain propagate on all sides their

rigid creed, forbidding the more favoured commoners of nature even to

sip joy's chalice. If not a saint, however, but a fair, confiding, and

romantic girl, she was good without misanthropy, pure without

pretension, and joyous, as youth and hopes not crushed might make her.

She was one of those of whom society might justly be proud. She obeyed

its dictates without question, but her feelings underwent no debasement

from the contact. If not a child of nature, she was by no means the

slave of art.

Emily Delmé was more beautiful than striking. She impressed more than

she exacted. Her violet eye gleamed with feeling; her smile few could

gaze on without sympathy--happy he who might revel in its brightness!

If aught gave a peculiar tinge to her character, it was the pride she

felt in the name she bore,--this she might have caught from Sir

Henry,--the interest she took in the legends connected with that name,

and the gratification which the thought gave her, that by her ancestors,

its character had been but rarely sullied, and never disgraced.

These things, it may be, she had accustomed herself to look on in a

light too glowing: for these things and all mundane ones are vain; but

her character did not consequently suffer. Her lip curled not with

hauteur, nor was her brow raised one shadow the more. The remembrance of

the old Baronetcy were on the ensanguined plain,--of the matchless

loyalty of a father and five valiant sons in the cause of the Royal

Charles,--the pondering over tomes, which in language obsolete, but

true, spoke of the grandeur--the deserved grandeur of her house; these

might be recollections and pursuits, followed with an ardour too

enthusiastic, but they stayed not the hand of charity, nor could they

check pity's tear. If her eye flashed as she gazed on the ancient

device of her family, reposing on its time worn pedestal, it could melt

to the tale of the houseless wanderer, and sympathise with the sorrows

of the fatherless.

Chapter II.

The Album.

"Oh that the desert were my dwelling place,

With one fair spirit for my minister;

That I might all forget the human race,

And, hating no one, love but only her."

A cheerful party were met in the drawing room of Delmé. Clarendon Gage,

a neighbouring land proprietor, to whom Emily had for a twelvemonth been

betrothed, had the night previous returned from a continental tour. In

consequence, Emily looked especially radiant, Delmé much pleased, and

Clarendon superlatively happy. Nor must we pass over Mrs. Glenallan,

Miss Delmé's worthy aunt, who had supplied the place of a mother to

Emily, and who now sat in her accustomed chair, with an almost sunny

brow, quietly pursuing her monotonous tambouring. At times she turned to

admire her niece, who occasionally walked to the glass window, to caress

and feed an impudent white peacock; which one moment strutted on the

wide terrace, and at another lustily tapped for his bread at ne of the

lower panes.

"I am glad to see you looking so well, Clarendon!"

"And I can return the compliment, Delmé! Few, looking at you now, would

take you for an old campaigner."

The style of feature in Delmé and Clarendon was very dissimilar. Sir

Henry was many years Gage's senior; but his manly bearing, and dark

decided features, would bear a contrast with even the tall and elegant,

although slight form of Clarendon. The latter was very fair, and what we

are accustomed to call English-looking. His hair almost, but not quite,

flaxen, hung in thick curls over his forehead, and would have given an

effeminate expression to the face, were it not for the peculiar flash of

the clear blue eye.

"Come! Clarendon," said Emily, "I will impose a task. You have written

twice in my album; once, years ago, and the second time on the eve of

our parting. Come! you shall read us both effusions, and then write a

sonnet to our happy meeting. Would that dear George were here now!"

Gage took up the book. It was a moderately-sized volume, bound in

crimson velvet. It was the fashion to keep albums _then_. It glittered

not in a binding of azure and gold, nor were its momentous secrets

enclosed by one of Bramah's locks. The Spanish proverb says, "Tell me

who you are with, and I will tell you what you are." Ours, in that album

age, used to be, "Show me your scrap book, I will tell you your

character." Emily's was not one commencing with--

"I never loved a dear gazelle!"

and ending with stanzas on the "Forget-me-not." It had not those

hackneyed but beautiful lines addressed by Mr. Spencer to Lady Crewe--

"I stay'd too late: forgive the crime!

Unheeded flew the hours;

For noiseless falls the foot of Time.

That only treads on flowers."

Nor contained it those sublime, but yet more common ones, on Sir John

Moore's death; which lines, by the bye, have suffered more from that

mischief-making, laughter-loving creature, Parody, than any lines we

know. It was not one of these books. Nor was it the splendid scrap book,

replete with superb engravings and proof-impression prints; nor at all

allied to the sentimental one of a garrison flirt, containing locks of

hair of at least five gentlemen, three of whom are officers in the army.

Nor, lastly, was it of that genus which has vulgarity in its very

title-page, and is here and there interspersed with devilish imps, or

caricatured likenesses of the little proprietress, all done in most

infinite humour, and marking the familiar friendship, of some half-dozen

whiskered cubs, having what is technically called the run of the house.

No! it was a repository for feeling and for memory, and, in its fair

pages, presented an image of Emily's heart. Many of these were marked,

it is true; and what human being's character is unchequered? But it was

blotless; and the virgin page looks not so white as when the contrast of

the sable ink is there.

Clarendon read aloud his first contribution--who knows it not? The very

words form a music, and that music is Metastasio's,

"Placido zeffiretto,

Se trovi il caro oggetto,

Digli che sei sospiro

Ma non gli dir di chi,

Limpido ruscelletto,

Se mai t'incontri in lei,

Digli che pianto sei,

Ma non le dir qual' eiglio

Crescer ti fe cosi."

"And now, Emily! for my parting tribute--if I remember right, it was

sorrowful enough."

Gage read, with tremulous voice, the following, which we will christen

THE FAREWELL.

I will not be the lightsome lark,

That carols to the rising morn,--

I'd rather be some plaintive bird

Lulling night's ear forlorn.

I will not be the green, green leaf,

Mingling 'midst thousand leaves and flowers

That shed their fairy charms around

To deck Spring's joyous bowers.

I'd rather be the one red leaf,

Waving 'midst Autumn's sombre groves:--

On the heart to breathe that sadness

Which contemplation loves.

I will not be the morning ray,

Dancing upon the river's crest,

All light, all motion, when the stream

Turns to the sun her breast.

I'd rather be the gentle shade,

Lengthening as eve comes stealing on,

And rest in pensive sadness there,

When those bright rays are gone.

I will not be a smile to play

Upon thy coral lip, and shed

Around it sweetness, like the sun

Risen from his crimson bed.

Oh, no! I'll be the tear that steals

In pity from that eye of blue,

Making the cheek more lovely red,

Like rose-leaf dipp'd in dew.

I will not be remember'd when

Mirth shall her pageant joys impart,--

A dream to sparkle in thine eye,

Yet vanish from thy heart.

But when pensive sadness clouds thee,

When thoughts, half pain, half pleasure, steal

Upon the heart, and memory doth

The shadowy past reveal.

When seems the bliss of former years,--

Too sweet, too pure, to feel again,--

And long lost hours, scenes, friends, return,

Remember me, love--then!

"Ah, Clarendon! how often have I read those lines, and thought--but I

will not think now! Here come the letters! Henry will soon be busy--I

shall finish my drawing--and aunt will finish--no! she never _can_

finish her tambour work. Take my portfolio and give me another

contribution!" Gage now wrote "The Return," which we insert for the

reader's approval:--

THE RETURN.

When the blue-eyed morn doth peep

Over the soft hill's verdant steep,

Lighting up its shadows deep,

I'll think of thee, love, _then!_

When the lightsome lark doth sing

Her grateful song to Nature's King,

Making all the woodlands ring,

I'll think of thee, love, _then!_

Or when plaintive Philomel

Shall mourn her mate in some lone dell,

And to the night her sorrows tell,

I'll think of thee, love, _then!_

When the first green leaf of spring

Shall promise of the summer bring,

And all around its fragrance fling,

I'll think of thee, love, _then!_

Or when the last red leaf shall fall,

And winter spread its icy pall,

To mind me of the death of all,

I'll think of thee, love, _then!_

When the lively morning ray

Is dancing on the river's spray,

And sunshine gilds the joyous day,

I'll think of thee, love, _then_!

And when the shades of eve steal on,

Lengthening as life's sun goes down,

Like sweetest constancy alone,

I'll think of thee, love, _then_!

When I see a sweet smile play

On coral lips, like Phoebus' ray,

Making all look warm and gay,

I'll think of thee, love, _then_!

When steals the tear of pity, too,

O'er a cheek, whose crimson hue

Looks like rose-leaf dipp'd in dew,

I'll think of thee, love, _then_!

When mirth's pageant joys unbind

The gloomy spells that chain my mind,

And make me dream of all that's kind,

I'll think of thee, love, _then_!

And when pensive sadness clouds me,

When the host of memory crowds me,

When the shadowy past enshrouds me,

I'll think of thee, love, _then_!

When seems the bliss of former years,--

Too sweet, too pure, to feel again,--

And long lost hours, scenes, friends, return,

I'll think of thee, love, _then_!

Chapter III.

The Dinner.

"Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven."

"Away! there need no words or terms precise,

The paltry jargon of the marble mart,

Where pedantry gulls folly: we have eyes."

We are told by the members of the silver-fork school, that no tale of

fiction can be complete unless it embody the description of a dinner.

Let us, therefore, shutting from our view that white-limbed gum-tree,

and dismissing from our table tea and damper, [Footnote: _Damper_.

Bushman's fare--unleavened bread] call on memory's fading powers, and

feast once more with the rich, the munificent, the intellectual

Belliston Græme.

Dinner! immortal faculty of eating! to what glorious sense or

pre-eminent passion dost thou not contribute? Is not love half fed by

thy attractions? Beams ever the eye of lover more bright than when,

after gazing with enraptured glance at the coveted haunch, whose fat--a

pure white; whose lean--a rich brown--invitingly await the assault. When

doth lover's eye sparkle more, than when, at such a moment, it lights on

the features of the loved fair one? Is not the supper quadrille the most

dangerous and the dearest of all?

Cherished venison! delicate white soup! spare young susceptible bosoms!

Again we ask, is not dinner the very aliment of friendship? the hinge on

which it turns? Does a man's heart expand to you ere you have returned

his dinner? It would be folly to assert it. Cabinet dinners--corporation

dinners--election dinners--and vestry dinners--and rail-road

dinners--we pass by these things, and triumphantly ask--does not _the_

Ship par excellence--the Ship of Greenwich--annually assemble under its

revered roof the luminaries of the nation? Oh, whitebait! called so

early to your last account! a tear is all we give, but it flows

spontaneously at the memory of your sorrows!

As Mr. Belliston Græme was much talked of in his day, it may not be

amiss to say a few words regarding him. He was an only child, and at an

early age lost his parents. The expense of his education was defrayed

by a wealthy uncle, the second partner in a celebrated banking house.

His tutor, with whom he may be said to have lived from boyhood--for his

uncle had little communication with him, except to write to him one

letter half-yearly, when he paid his school bill--was a shy retiring

clergyman--a man of very extensive acquirements, and a first rate

classical scholar. After a short time, the curate and young Græme

became attached to each other. The tutor was a bachelor, and Græme was

his only pupil. The latter was soon inoculated with the classical mania

of his preceptor; and, as he grew up, it was quite a treat to hear the

pair discourse of Greeks and Romans. A stranger who had _then_ heard

them would have imagined that Themistocles and Scipio Africanus were

stars of the present generation. When Græme was nineteen, his uncle

invited him to town for a month--a most unusual proceeding. During this

period he studied closely his nephew's character. At the end of this

term, Mr. Hargrave and his young charge were on their way to the

classical regions, where their fancy had been so long straying. They

explored France, and the northern parts of Italy--came on the shores of

the Adriatic--resided and secretly made excavations near the

amphitheatre of Polo--and finally reached the Morea. Not a crag,

valley, or brook, that they were not conversant with before they left

it. They at length tore themselves away; and found themselves at the

ancient Parthenope. It was at Pompeii Mr. Græme first saw the

beautiful Miss Vignoles, the Mrs. Glenallan of our story; and, in a

strange adventure with some Neapolitan guides, was of some service to

her party. They saw his designs of some tombs, and took the trouble of

drawing him out. The young man now for the first time basked in the

sweets of society; in a fortnight, to Mr. Hargrave's horror, was

rolling in its vortex; in a couple of months found himself indulging

in, and avowing, a hopeless passion; and in three, was once again in

his native land, falsely deeming that his peace of mind had fled for

ever. He was shortly, however, called upon to exert his energies. The

death of his uncle suddenly made him, to his very great surprise, one

of the wealthiest commoners of England. At this period he was quite

unknown. In a short time Mr. Hargrave and himself were lodged

luxuriously--were deep in the pursuit of science, literature, and the

belle arte--and on terms of friendship with the cleverest and most

original men of the day. Mr. Græme's occupations being sedentary, and

his habits very regular, he shortly found that his great wealth enabled

him, not only to indulge in every personal luxury at Rendlesham Park,

but to patronise largely every literary work of merit. In him the needy

man of genius found a friend, the man of wit a companion, and the

publisher a generous customer. He became famous for his house, his

library, his exclusive society. But he did not become spoilt by his

prosperity, and never neglected his old tutor.

Our party from Delmé were ushered into a large drawing-room, the sole

light of which was from an immense bow window, looking out on the

extensive lawn. The panes were of enormous size, and beautiful specimens

of classique plated glass. The only articles of furniture, were some

crimson ottomans which served to set off the splendid paintings; and one

table of the Florentine manufacture of pietra dura, on which stood a

carved bijou of Benvenuto Cellini's. Our party were early. They were

welcomed by Mr. Græme with great cordiality, and by Mr. Hargrave with

some embarrassment, for the tutor was still the bashful man of former

days. Mr. Græme's dress shamed these degenerate days of black stock and

loose trowser. Diamond buckles adorned his knees, and fastened his

shoes. His clear blue eye--the high polished forehead--the deep lines of

the countenance--revealed the man of thought and intellect. The playful

lip shewed he could yet appreciate a flash of wit or spark of humour.

"Miss Delmé, you are looking at my paintings; let me show you my late

purchases. Observe this sweet Madonna, by Murillo! I prefer it to the

one in the Munich Gallery. It may not boast Titian's glow of colour, or

Raphael's grandeur of design,--in delicate angelic beauty, it may yield

to the delightful efforts of Guido's or Correggio's pencil,--but surely

no human conception can ever have more touchingly portrayed the

beauteous resigned mother. The infant, too! how inimitably blended is

the God-like serenity of the Saviour, with the fond and graceful

witcheries of the loving child! How little we know of the beauties of

the Spanish school! Would I could ransack their ancient monasteries, and

bring a few of them to light!

"You are a chess player! Pass not by this check-mate of Caravaggio's.

What undisguised triumph in one countenance! What a struggle to repress

nature's feelings in the other! Here is a Guido! sweet, as his ever are!

He may justly be styled the female laureat. What artist can compete with

him in delineating the blooming expression, or the tender, but lighter,

shades of female loveliness? who can pause between even the Fornarina,

and that divine effort, the Beatrice Cenci of the Barberini?"

The party were by this time assembled. Besides our immediate friends,

there was his Grace the Duke of Gatten, a good-natured fox-hunting

nobleman, whose estate adjoined Mr. Græme's; there was the Viscount

Chambéry, who had penned a pamphlet on finance--indited a folio on

architecture--and astonished Europe with an elaborate dissertation on

modern cookery; there was Charles Selby, the poet and essayist;

Daintrey, the sculptor--a wonderful Ornithologist--a deep read

Historian--a learned Orientalist--and a novelist, from France; whose

works exhibited such unheard of horrors, and made man and woman so

irremediably vicious, as to make this young gentleman celebrated, even

in Paris--that Babylonian sink of iniquity.

Dinner was announced, and our host, giving his arm very stoically to

Mrs. Glenallan, his love of former days, led the way to the dining-room.

Round the table were placed beautifully carved oaken fauteuils, of a

very old pattern. The service of plate was extremely plain, but of

massive gold. But the lamp! It was of magnificent dimensions! The light

chains hanging from the frescoed ceiling, the links of which were hardly

perceptible, were of silver, manufactured in Venice; the lower part was

of opal-tinted glass, exactly portraying some voluptuous couch, on which

the beautiful Amphitrite might have reclined, as she hastened through

beds of coral to crystal grot, starred with transparent stalactites. In

the centre of this shell, were sockets, whence verged small hollow

golden tubes, resembling in shape and size the stalks of a flower. At

the drooping ends of these, were lamps shaped and coloured to imitate

the most beauteous flowers of the parterre. This bouquet of light had

been designed by Mr. Græme. Few novelties had acquired greater

celebrity than the Græme astrale. The room was warmed by heating the

pedestals of the statues.

"Potage à la fantôme, and à l'ourika."

"I will trouble you, Græme," said my Lord Chambéry, "for the fantôme. I

have dined on la pritannière for the last three months, and a novel soup

is a novel pleasure."

Of the fish, the soles were à la Rowena, the salmon à l'amour. Emily

flirted with the wing of a chicken sauté au suprême, coquetted with

perdrix perdu masqué à la Montmorenci, and tasted a boudin à la

Diebitsch. The wines were excellent--the Geisenheim delicious--the

Champagne sparkling like a pun of Jekyll's. But nothing aroused the

attention of the Viscount Chambéry so much as a liqueur, which Mr.

Græme assured him was new, and had just been sent him by the Conte de

Desir. The dessert had been some time on the table, when the Viscount

addressed his host.

"Græme! I am delighted to find that you at length agree with me as to

the monstrous superiority of a French repast. Your omelette imaginaire

was faultless, and as for your liqueur, I shall certainly order a supply

on my return to Paris."

"That liqueur, my dear lord," replied Mr. Græme, "is good old cowslip

mead, with a flask of Maraschino di Zara infused in it. For the rest,

the dinner has been almost as imaginaire as the omelet. The greater part

of the recipes are in an old English volume in my library, or perhaps

some owe their origin to the fertile invention of my housekeeper. Let

us style them à la Dorothée."

"Capital! I thank you, Græme!" said his Grace of Gatten, as he shook

his host by the hand, till the tears stood in his eyes.

The prescient Chambéry had made a good dinner, and bore the joke

philosophically. Coffee awaited the gentlemen in a small octagonal

chamber, adjoining the music room. There stood Mr. Græme's three

favourite modern statues:--a Venus, by Canova--a Discobole, by

Thorwaldson--and a late acquisition--the Ariadne, of Dannecker.

"This is the work of an artist," said Mr. Græme, "little known in

this country, but in Germany ranking quite as high as Thorwaldson.

This is almost a duplicate of his Ariadne at Frankfort, but the

marble is much more pure. How wonderfully fine the execution! Pray

notice the bold profile of the face; how energetic her action as she

sits on the panther!"

Mr. Græme touched the spring of a window frame. A curtain of crimson

gauze fell over a globe lamp, and threw a rich shade on the marble.

The features remained as finely chiselled, but their expression was

totally changed.

They adjourned to the music-room, which deserved its title. Save some

seats, which were artfully formed to resemble lyres, nothing broke the

continuity of music's tones, which ascended majestically to the lofty

dome, there to blend and wreath, and fall again. At one extremity of

music's hall was an organ; at the other a grand piano, built by a German

composer. Ranged on carved slabs, at intermediate distances, was placed

almost every instrument that may claim a votary. Of viols, from the violin

to the double bass,--of instruments of brass, from trombones and bass

kettledrums even unto trumpet and cymbal,--of instruments of wood, from

winding serpents to octave flute,--and of fiddles of parchment, from the

grosse caisse to the tambourine. Nor were ancient instruments wanting.

These were of quaint forms and diverse constructions. Mr. Græme would

descant for hours on an antique species of spinnet, which he procured from

the East, and which he vehemently averred, was the veritable dulcimer. He

would display with great gusto, his specimens of harps of Israel; whose

deep-toned chorus, had perchance thrilled through the breast of more than

one of Judea's dark-haired daughters. Greece, too, had her

representatives, to remind the spectators that there had been an Orpheus.

There were flutes of the Doric and of the Phrygian mode, and--let us

forget not--the Tyrrhenian trumpet, with its brazen-cleft pavilion. But by

far the greater part of his musical relics he had acquired during his stay

in Italy. He could show the litui with their carved clarions--the twisted

cornua--the tuba, a trumpet so long and taper,--the concha wound by

Tritons--and eke the buccina, a short and brattling horn.

Belliston Græme was an enthusiastic musician; and was in this peculiar,

that he loved the science for its simplicity. Musicians are but too apt

to give to music's detail and music's difficulties the homage that

should be paid to music's self: in this resembling the habitual man of

law, who occasionally forgetteth the great principles of jurisprudence,

and invests with mysterious agency such words as latitat and certiorari.

The soul of music may not have fled;--for we cultivate her

assiduously,--worship Handel--and appreciate Mozart. But music _now_

springs from the head, not the heart; is not for the mass, but for

individuals. With our increased researches, and cares, and troubles, we

have lost the faculty of being pleased. Past are those careless days,

when the shrill musette, or plain cittern and virginals, could with

their first strain give motion to the blythe foot of joy, or call from

its cell the prompt tear of pity. Those days are gone! Music may affect

some of us as deeply, but none as readily!

Mr. Græme had received from Paris an unpublished opera of Auber's.

Emily seated herself at the piano--her host took the violin--Clarendon

was an excellent flute player--and the tinkle of the Viscount's guitar

came in very harmoniously. By the time refreshments were introduced,

Charles Selby too was in his glory. He had already nearly convulsed the

Orientalist by a theory which he said he had formed, of a gradual

metempsychosis, or, at all events, perceptible amalgamation, of the

yellow Qui Hi to the darker Hindoo; which said theory he supported by

the most ingenious arguments.

"How did you like your stay in Scotland, Mr. Selby?" said Sir

Henry Delmé.

"I am a terrible Cockney, Sir Henry,--found it very cold, and was very

sulky. The only man I cared to see in Scotland was at the Lakes; but I

kept a register of events, which is now on the table in my

dressing-room. If Græme will read it, for I am but a stammerer, it is

at your service."

The paper was soon produced, and Mr. Græme read the following:--

"THE BRAHMIN.

"A stranger arrived from a far and foreign country. His was a mind

peculiarly humble, tremblingly alive to its own deficiencies. Yet,

endowed with this mistrust, he sighed for information, and his soul

thirsted in the pursuit of knowledge. Thus constituted, he sought the

city he had long dreamingly looked up to as the site of truth--Scotia's

capital, the modern Athens. In endeavouring to explore the mazes of

literature, he by no means expected to discover novel paths, but sought

to traverse beauteous ones; feeling he could rest content, could he meet

with but one flower, which some bolder and more experienced adventurer

might have allowed to escape him. He arrived, and cast around an anxious

eye. He found himself involved in an apparent chaos--the whirl of

distraction--imbedded amidst a ceaseless turmoil of would-be knowing

students, endeavouring to catch the aroma of the pharmacopaeia, or dive

to the deep recesses of Scotch law. He sought and cultivated the

friendship of the literati; and anticipated a perpetual feast of soul,

from a banquet to which one of the most distinguished members of a

learned body had invited him. He went with his mind braced up for the

subtleties of argument--with hopes excited, heart elate. He deemed that

the authenticity of Champolion's hieroglyphics might now be permanently

established, or a doubt thrown on them which would for ever extinguish

curiosity. He heard a doubt raised as to the probability of Dr. Knox's

connection with Burke's murders! Disappointed and annoyed, he returned

to his hotel, determined to seek other means of improvement; and to

carefully observe the manners, customs, and habits of the beings he was

among. He enquired first as to their habits, and was presented with

scones, kippered salmon, and a gallon of Glenlivet; as to their manners

and ancient costume, and was pointed out a short fat man, the head of

his clan, who promenaded the streets without trousers. Neither did he

find the delineation of their customs more satisfactory. He was made

nearly tipsy at a funeral--was shown how to carve haggis--and a fit of

bile was the consequence, of his too plentifully partaking of a

superabundantly rich currant bun. He mused over these defeats of his

object, and, unwilling to relinquish his hitherto fruitless

search,--reluctant to despair,--he bent his steps to that city, where

utility preponderates over ornament; that city which so early encouraged

that most glorious of inventions, by the aid of which he hoped, that the

diminutive barks of his countrymen might yet be propelled, thus

superseding the ponderous paddle of teak, He here expected to be

involved in an intricate labyrinth of mechanical inventions,--in a

stormy discussion on the comparative merits of rival machinery,--to be

immersed in speculative but gigantic theories. He was elected an

honorary member of a news-room; had his coat whitened with cotton; and

was obliged to confess that he knew of no beverage that could equal

their superb cold punch. Our philosopher now gave himself up to despair;

but before returning to his own warm clime, he sought to discover the

reason of his finding the flesh creep, where he had deemed the spirit

would soar. He at length came to the conclusion that we are all slaves

to the world and to circumstances; and as, with his peculiar belief, he

could look on our sacred volume with the eye of a philosopher, felt

impressed with the conviction that the history of Babel's tower is but

an allegory, which says to the pride of man,

"'Thus far shall ye go, and no farther.'"

The Brahmin's adventures elicited much amusement. In a short time,

Selby was in a hot argument with the French novelist. Every now and

then, as the Frenchman answered him, he stirred his negus, and hummed a

translation of

"I'd be a butterfly."

"Erim papilio,

Natus in flosculo."

Chapter IV.

The Postman.

"Not in those visions, to the heart displaying

Forms which it sighs but to have only dream'd,

Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seem'd;

Or, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek

To paint those charms which, imaged as they beam'd,

To such as see thee not, my words were weak;

To those who gaze on thee, what language could they speak?"

Delmé had long designed some internal improvements in the mansion;

and as workmen would necessarily be employed, had proposed that our

family party should pass a few weeks at a watering place, until these

were completed. They were not without hopes, that George might there

join them, as Emily had written to Malta, pressing him to be present

at her wedding.

We have elsewhere said, that Sir Henry had arrived at middle age,

before one feeling incompatible with his ambitious thoughts arose. It

was at Leamington this feeling had imperceptibly sprung up; and to

Leamington they were now going.

Is there an electric chain binding hearts predestined to love?

Hath Providence ordained, that on our first interview with that being,

framed to meet our wishes and our desires--the rainbow to our cloud, and

the sun to our noon-day--hath it ordained that there should also be

given us some undefinable token--some unconscious whispering from the

heart's inmost spirit?

Who may fathom these inscrutable mysteries?

Sir Henry had been visiting an old schoolfellow, who had a country seat

near Leamington. He was riding homewards, through a sequestered and

wooded part of the park, when he was aware of the presence of two

ladies, evidently a mother and daughter. They sate on one side of the

rude path, on an old prostrate beech tree. The daughter, who was very

beautiful, was sketching a piece of fern for a foreground: the mother

was looking over the drawing. Neither saw the equestrian.

It was a fair sight to regard the young artist, with her fine profile

and drooping eyelid, bending over the drawing, like a Grecian statue;

then to note the calm features upturn, and forget the statue in the

breathing woman. At intervals, her auburn tresses would fall on the

paper, and sweep the pencil's efforts. At such times, she would remove

them with her small hand, with such a soft smile, and gentle grace, that

the very action seemed to speak volumes for her feminine sympathies.

Delmé disturbed them not, but making a tour through the grove of beech

trees, reached Leamington in thoughtful mood.

It was not long before he met them in society. The mother was a Mrs.

Vernon, a widow, with a large family and small means. Of that family

Julia was the fairest flower. As Sir Henry made her acquaintance, and

her character unfolded itself, he acknowledged that few could study it

without deriving advantage; few without loving her to adoration. That

character it would be hard to describe without our description

appearing high-flown and exaggerated. It bore an impress of loftiness,

totally removed from pride; a moral superiority, which impressed all.

With this was united an innate purity, that seemed her birthright; a

purity that could not for an instant be doubted. If the libertine gazed

on her features, it awoke in him recollections that had long slumbered;

of the time when his heart beat but for one. If, in her immediate

sphere, any littleness of feeling was brought to her notice, it was met

with an intuitive doubt, followed by painful surprise, that such

feeling, foreign as she felt it to be to her own nature, could really

have existence in that of another.

Thank God! she had seen few of the trickeries of this restless world, in

which most of us are struggling against our neighbours; and, if we could

look forward with certainty, to the nature of the world beyond this, it

is most likely that we should breathe a fervent prayer that she should

never witness more.

Her person was a fit receptacle for such a mind. A face all softness,

seemed and _was_ the index to a heart all pity. Taller than her

compeers,--in all she said or did, a native dignity and a witching

grace were exquisitely blended. She was one not easily seen without

admiration; but when known, clung Cydippe-like to the heart's mirror, an

image over which neither time nor absence possessed controul.

The Delmés resided at Leamington the remainder of the winter, which

passed fleetly and happily. Emily, for the first time, gave way to that

one feeling, which, to a woman, is the all-important and engrossing one,

enjoying her happiness in that full spirit of content, which basking in

present joys, attempts not to mar them by ideal disquietudes. The Delmés

cultivated the society of the Vernons; Emily and Julia became great

friends; and Sir Henry, with all his stoicism, was nourishing an

attachment, whose force, had he been aware of it, he would have been at

some pains to repress. As it was, he totally overlooked the possibility

of his trifling with the feelings of another. He had a number of sage

aphorisms to urge against his own entanglement, and, with a moral

perverseness, from which the best of us are not free, chose to forget

that it was possible his convincing arguments, might neither be known

to, nor appreciated by one, on whom their effect might be far from

unimportant.

At this stage, Clarendon thought it his duty to warn Delmé; and, to his

credit be it said, shrunk not from it.

"Excuse me, Delmé," said he, "will you allow me to say one word to you

on a subject that nearly concerns yourself?"

Sir Henry briefly assented.

"You see a great deal of Miss Vernon. She is a very fascinating and a

very amiable person; but from something you once said to me, it has

struck me that in some respects she might not suit you."

"I like her society," replied his friend; "but you are right. She would

_not_ suit me. _You_ know me pretty well. My hope has ever been to

increase, and not diminish the importance of my house. It once stood

higher both in wealth and consideration. I see many families springing

up around me, that can hardly lay claim to a descent so unblemished I

speak not in a spirit of intolerance, nor found my family claim solely

on its pedigree; but my ancestors have done good in their generation,

and it is a proud thing to be 'the scion of a noble race!'"

"It may be;" said Clarendon quietly, "but I cannot help thinking, that

with your affluence, you have every right to follow your own

inclination. I know that few of my acquaintances are so independent of

the world."

Sir Henry shook his head.

"The day is not very distant, Gage, when a Dacre would hardly have

returned two members for my county, if a Delmé had willed it otherwise.

But there is little occasion for me to have said thus much. Miss Vernon,

I trust, has other plans; and I believe my own feelings are not enlisted

deep enough, to make me forget the hopes and purposes of half a

life-time."

It was some few days after this, when Emily had almost given up looking

with interest to the postman's visit, that a letter at last came,

directed to Sir Henry; not indeed in George's hand-writing, but with

the Malta post mark. Delmé read it over thoughtfully, and, assuring

Emily that there was nothing to alarm her, left the room to consider

its contents.

By the way, we have thought over heartless professions, and cannot help

conceiving that of a postman, (it may be conceit!) the most callous and

unfeeling of all. He is waited for with more anxiety than any guest of

the morning; for his visits invariably convey something new to the mind.

He is not love! but he bears it in his pocket; he cannot be friendship!

but he daily hawks about its assurances. With all this, knowing his

importance, aware of the sensation his appearance calls forth, his very

knock is heartless--the tones of his voice cold. Feeling seems denied

him; his head is a debtor and creditor account, his departure the

receipt, and time alone can say, whether your bargain has been a good or

a bad one. He has certainly no assumption--it is one of his few good

traits; he walks with his arms in motion, but attempts not a swagger;

his knock is unassuming, and his words, though much attended to, are

few, and to the point. Why, then, abuse him? We know not, but believe it

originates in fear. An intuitive feeling of dread--a rushing

presentiment of evil--crosses our mind, as our eye dwells on his

thread-bare coat, with its capacious pockets. News of a death--or a

marriage--the tender valentine--the remorseless dun--your having been

left an estate, or cut off with a shilling--fortune, and misfortune--he

quietly dispenses, as if totally unconscious. Surely such a man--his

round performed--cannot quietly sink to the private individual. Can such

a man caress his wife, or kiss his child, when he knows not how many

hearts are bursting with joy, or breaking with sorrow, from the tidings

_he_ has conveyed? To our mind, a postman should be an abstracted

visionary being, endowed with a peculiar countenance, betraying the

unnatural sparkle of the opium-eater, and evincing intense anxiety at

the delivery of each sheet. But these,--they wait not to hear the joyful

shout, or heart-rending moan--to know if hope deferred be at length

joyful certainty, or bitter only half-expected woe. We dread a postman.

Our hand shook, as we last year paid the man of many destinies his

demanded Christmas box.

The amount was double that we gave to the minister of our corporeal

necessities--the butcher's boy--not from a conviction of the superior

services or merit of the former, but from an uneasy desire to bribe, if

we could, that Mercury of fate.

The letter to Sir Henry, was from the surgeon of George's regiment. It

stated that George had been severely ill, and that connected with his

illness, were symptoms which made it imperative on the medical adviser,

to recommend the immediate presence of his nearest male relative.

Apologies were made for the apparent mystery of the communication, with

a promise that this would be at once cleared up, if Sir Henry would but

consent to make the voyage; which would not only enable him to be of

essential service to his brother, but also to acquire much information

regarding him, which could only be obtained on the spot. A note from

George was enclosed in this letter. It was written with an unsteady

hand, and made no mention of his illness. He earnestly begged his

brother to come to Malta, if he could possibly so arrange it, and

transmitted his kindest love and blessing to Emily.

Sir Henry at once made up his mind, to leave Leamington for town on the

morrow, trusting that he might there meet with information which would

be more satisfactory. He concealed for the time the true state of the

case from all but Clarendon; nor did he even allude to his proposed

departure.

It was Emily's birth-day, and Gage had arranged that the whole party

should attend a little fête on that night. Sir Henry could not find it

in his heart to disturb his sister's dream of happiness.

Chapter V

The Fête.

"Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!

If, in your bright leaves, we would read the fate

Of men and empires,--'tis to be forgiven,

That, in our aspirations to be great,

Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state,

And claim a kindred with you."

The night came on with its crescent moon and its myriads of stars: just

such a night as might have been wished for such a fête. It was in the

month of April. April dews, in Britain's variable clime; are not the

most salubrious, and April's night air is too often keen and piercing;

but the season was an unusually mild one; and the ladies, with their

cloaks and their furs, promenaded the well-lighted walks, determined to

be pleased and happy.

The giver of the fête was an enterprising Italian. Winter's

amusements were over, or neglected--summer's delights were not

arrived; and Signor Pacini conceived, that during the dull and

monotonous interval, a speculation of his own might prove welcome to

the public and beneficial to himself. To do the little man justice, he

was indefatigable in his exertions. From door to door he wended his

smiling way,--here praising the mother's French, there the daughter's

Italian. He gained hosts of partisans. "Of course you patronise

Pacini!" was in every one's mouth. The Signor's prospectus stated,

that "through the kindness of the steward of an influential nobleman,

who was now on the continent, he was enabled to give his fete in the

grounds of the Earl of W----; where a full quadrille band would be in

attendance, a pavilion pitched on the smooth lawn facing the river,

and a comfortable ball room thrown open to a fashionable and

enlightened public. The performance would be most various, novel, and

exciting. Brilliant fireworks from Vauxhall would delight the eye, and

shed a charm on the fairy scene; whilst the car would be regaled with

the unequalled harmony of the Styrian brethren, Messrs. Schezer,

Lobau, and Berdan, who had very kindly deferred their proposed return

to Styria, in order to honour the fete of Signor Pacini."

As night drew on, the mimic thunder of carriages hastening to the scene

of action, bespoke the Signor's success. After the ninth hour, his

numbers swelled rapidly. Pacini assumed an amusing importance, and his

very myrmidons gave out their brass tickets with an air. At ten, a

rocket was fired. At this preconcerted signal, the pavilion, hitherto

purposely concealed, blazed in a flood of light. On its balcony stood

the three Styrian brethren,--although, by the way, they were not

brethren at all,--and, striking their harmonious guitars, wooed

attention to their strains. The crowd hurried down the walk, and formed

round the pavilion. Our party suddenly found themselves near the

Vernons. As the gentlemen endeavoured to obtain chairs for the ladies, a

crush took place, and Sir Henry was obliged to offer his arm to Julia,

who happened to be the nearest of her party. It was with pain Miss

Vernon noted his clouded brow, and look of abstraction; but hardly one

word of recognition had passed, before the deep voices of the Styrians

silenced all. After singing some effective songs, accompanied by a

zither, and performing a melodious symphony on a variety of Jew's-harps;

Pacini, the manager, advanced to address his auditors, with that air of

smiling confidence which no one can assume with better grace than a

clever Italian. His dark eye flashed, and his whole features irradiated,

as he delivered the following harangue.

"Ladies and gentlemen! me trust you well satisfied wid de former

musical entertainment; but, if you permit, me mention one leetle

circonstance. Monsieur Schezer propose to give de song; but it require

much vat you call stage management: all must be silent as de grave. It

ver pretty morceau."

The applause at the end of this speech was very great. Signor Pacini

bowed, till his face rivalled, in its hue, the rosy under-waistcoat in

which he rejoiced.

Schezer stepped forward. He was attired as a mountaineer. His hat

tapered to the top, and was crowned by a single heron feather. Hussars

might have envied him his moustaches. From his right side protruded a

couteau de chasse; and his legs were not a little set off by the

tight-laced boots, which, coming up some way beyond the ancle, displayed

his calf to the very best advantage.

The singer's voice was a fine manly tenor, and did ample justice to the

words, of which the following may be taken as a free version.

"Mountains! dear mountains! on you have I passed my green youth; to me

your breeze has been fragrant from childhood. When may I see the chamois

bounding o'er your toppling crags? When, oh when, may I see my

fair-haired Mary?"

The minstrel paused--a sound was heard from behind the pavilion. It was

the mountain's echo. It continued the air--then died away in the

softest harmony. All were charmed. Again the singer stepped

forward--the utmost silence prevailed--his tones became more

impassioned--they breathed of love.

"Thanks! thanks to thee, gentle echo! Oft hast thou responded to the

strains of love my soul poured to--ah me! how beautiful was the

fair-haired Mary!"

Again the echo spoke--again all were hushed. The minstrel's voice rose

again; but its tones were not akin to joy.

"Why remember this, deceitful echo? War's blast hath blown, and hushed

are the notes of love. The foe hath polluted my hearth--I wander an

exile. Where, where is Mary?"

The echo faintly but plaintively replied. There were some imagined that

a tear really started to the eye of the singer. He struck the guitar

wildly--his voice became more agitated--he advanced to the extremity of

the balcony.

"My sword! my sword! May my right hand be withered ere it forget to

grasp its hilt! One blow for freedom. Freedom--sweet as was the

lip--Yes! I'll revenge my Mary!"

Schezer paused, apparently overcome by his emotion. The echo wildly

replied, as if registering the patriot's vow. For a moment all was

still! A thundering burst of applause ensued.

The mountain music was succeeded by a sweep of guitars, accompanying a

Venetian serenade, whose burthen was the apostrophising the cruelty of

"la cara Nina."

It was near midnight, when all eyes were directed to a ball of fire,

which, rising majestically upward, soared amid the tall elm trees. For a

moment, the balloon became entangled in the boughs, revealing by its

transparent light the green buds of spring, which variegated and cheered

the scathed bark. It broke loose from their embrace--hovered

irresolutely above them--then swept rapidly before the wind, rising till

it became as a speck in the firmament.

This was the signal for Mr. Robinson's fireworks, which did not shame

Vauxhall's reputation. At one moment, a salamander courted notice; at

another, a train of fiery honours, festooned round four wooden pillars,

was fired at different places, by as many doves practised to the task.

Here, an imitation of a jet d'eau elicited applause--there, the

gyrations of a Catherine's wheel were suddenly interrupted by the rapid

ascent of a Roman candle.

Directly after the ascent of the balloon, Emily and Clarendon had

turned towards the ball room. Julia's sisters had a group of laughing

beaux round their chairs,--Mrs. Glenallan and Mrs. Vernon were

discussing bygone days,--and no one seemed disposed to leave the

pavilion. Sir Henry, in his silent mood, was glad to escape from the

party; and engaging Julia in a search for Emily, made his way to the

crowded ball room. He there found his sister spinning round with

Clarendon to one of Strauss's waltzes; and Sir Henry and his partner

seated themselves on one of the benches, watching the smiling faces as

they whirled past them. It was a melancholy thought to Delmé, how soon

Emily's brow would be clouded, were he to breathe one word of George's

illness and despondency. The waltz concluded, a quadrille was quickly

formed. Miss Vernon declined dancing, and they rose to join Emily and

Clarendon; but the lovers were flown. The ball room became still more

thronged; and Delmé was glad to turn once more towards the pavilion. The

party they had left there had also vanished, and strangers usurped their

seats. In this dilemma, Miss Vernon proposed seeking their party in the

long walk. They took one or two turns down this, but saw not those for

whom they were in search.

"If you do not dislike leaving this busy scene," said Sir Henry, "I

think we shall have a better chance of meeting Emily and Clarendon, if

we turn down one of these winding paths."

They turned to their left, and walked on. How beautiful was that night!

Its calm tranquillity, as they receded from the giddy throng, could not

but subdue them. We have said that the moon was not riding the heavens

in her full robe of majesty, nor was there a sombre darkness. The purple

vault was spangled thick with stars; and there reigned that dubious,

glimmering light, by which you can note a face, but not mark its blush.

The walks wound fantastically. They were lit by festoons of coloured

lamps, attached to the neighbouring trees, so as to resemble the pendent

grape-clusters, that the traveller meets with just previous to the

Bolognese vintage. Occasionally, a path would be encountered where no

light met the eye save that of the prying stars overhead. In the

distant vista, might be seen a part of the crowded promenade, where

music held its court; whilst at intervals, a voice's swell or guitar's

tinkle would be borne on the ear. There was the hum of men, too--the

laugh of the idlers without the sanctum, as they indulged in the

delights of the mischievous fire-ball--and the sudden whizz, followed by

an upward glare of light, as a rocket shot into the air. But the hour,

and the nameless feeling that hour invoked, brought with them a subduing

influence, which overpowered these intruding sounds, attuning the heart

to love and praise. They paced the walk in mutual and embarrassed

silence. Sir Henry's thoughts would at one time revert to his brother,

and at another to that parting, which the morrow would assuredly bring

with it. He was lost in reverie, and almost forgot who it was that leant

thus heavily upon his arm. Julia had loved but once. She saw his

abstraction, and knew not the cause; and her timid heart beat quicker

than was its wont, as undefined images of coming evil and sorrow, chased

each other through her excited fancy. At length she essayed to speak,

although conscious that her voice faltered.

"What a lovely night! Are you a believer in the language of the stars?"

This was said with such simplicity of manner, that Delmé, as he turned

to answer her, felt truly for the first time the full force of his

attachment. He felt it the more strongly, that his mind previously had

been wandering more than it had done for years.

There are times and seasons when we are engrossed in a train of deep and

unconscious thought. Suddenly recalled to ourselves, we start from our

mental aberration, and a clearer insight into the immediate purposes and

machinery of our lives, is afforded us. We seem endowed with a more

accurate knowledge of self; the inmost workings of our souls are

abruptly revealed--feeling's mysteries stand developed--our weaknesses

stare us in the face--and our vices appear to gnaw the very vitals of

our hope. The veil was indeed withdrawn,--and Delmé's heart

acknowledged, that the fair being who leant on him for support, was

dearer--far dearer, than all beside. But he saw too, ambition in that

heart's deep recess, and knew that its dictates, unopposed for years,

were totally incompatible with such a love. He saw and trembled.

Julia's question was repeated, before Sir Henry could reply.

"A soldier, Miss Vernon, is particularly susceptible of visionary ideas.

On the lone bivouac, or remote piquet, duty must frequently chase sleep

from his eyelids. At such times, I have, I confess, indulged in wild

speculations, on their possible influence on our wayward destinies. I

was then a youth, and should not now, I much fear me, pursue with such

unchecked ardour, the dreams of romance in which I could then

unrestrainedly revel. Perhaps I should not think it wise to do so, even

had not sober reality stolen from imagination her brightest pinion."

"I would fain hope, Sir Henry," replied Julia, "that all your mind's

elasticity is not thus flown. Why blame such fanciful theories? I cannot

think them wrong, and I have often passed happy hours in forming them."

"Simply because they remove us too much from our natural sphere of

usefulness. They may impart us pleasure; but I question whether, by

dulling our mundane delights, they do not steal pleasure quite

equivalent. Besides, they cannot assist us in conferring happiness on

others, or in gleaning improvement for ourselves. I am not quite

certain, enviable as appears the distinction, whether the _too_

feelingly appreciating even nature's beauties, does not bear with it its

own retribution."

"Ah! do not say so! I cannot think that it _should_ be so with minds

properly regulated. I cannot think that _such_ can ever gaze on the

wonders revealed us, without these imparting their lesson of gratitude

and adoration. If, full of hope, our eye turns to some glorious planet,

and we fondly deem that _there_, may our dreams of happiness _here,_ be

perpetuated; surely in such poetical fancy, there is little to condemn,

and much that may wean us from folly's idle cravings.

"If in melancholy's hour, we mourn for one who hath been dear, and sorrow

for the perishable nature of all that may here claim our earthly

affections; is it not sweet to think that in another world--perhaps in

some bright star--we may again commune with what we have _so_

loved--once more be united in those kindly bonds--and in a kingdom where

those bonds may not thus lightly be severed?"

Julia's voice failed her; for she thought of one who had preceded her to

"the last sad bourne."

Delmé was much affected. He turned towards her, and his hand

touched hers.

"Angelic being!"

As he spoke, darker, more worldly thoughts arose. A fearful struggle,

which convulsed his features, ensued. The world triumphed.

Julia Vernon saw much of this, and maiden delicacy told her it was not

meet they should be alone.

"Let us join the crowd!" said she. "We shall probably meet our party in

the long walk: if not, we will try the ball room."

Poor Julia! little was her heart in unison with that joyous scene!

By the eve of the morrow, Delmé was many leagues from her and his

family.

Restless man, with travel, ambition, and excitement, can woo and almost

win oblivion;--but poor, weak, confiding woman--what is left to her?

In secret to mourn, and in secret still to love.

Chapter III.

The Journey.

"Adieu! adieu! My native land

Fades o'er the ocean blue;

The night winds sigh--the breakers roar--

And shrieks the wild sea mew.

Yon sun that sets upon the sea,

We follow in his flight:

Farewell awhile to him and thee!

My native land! good night!"

We have rapidly sketched the dénouement of the preceding chapter; but it

must not be forgotten, that Delmé had been residing some months at

Leamington, and that Emily and Julia were friends. In his own familiar

circle--a severe but true test--Sir Henry had every opportunity of

becoming acquainted with Miss Vernon's sweetness of disposition, and of

appreciating the many excellencies of her character. For the rest,

their intercourse had been of that nature, that it need excite no

surprise, that a walk on a gala night, had the power of extracting an

avowal, which, crude, undigested, and hastily withdrawn as it was, was

certainly more the effusion of the heart--more consonant with Sir

Henry's original nature--than the sage reasonings on his part, which

preceded and followed that event.

On Delmé's arrival in town, he prosecuted with energy his enquiries as

to his brother. He called on the regimental agents, who could give him

no information. George's military friends had lost sight of him since he

had sailed for the Mediterranean; and of the few persons, whom he could

hear of, who had lately left Malta; some were passing travellers, who

had made no acquaintances there, others, English merchants, who had met

George at the Opera and in the streets, but nowhere else. It is true,

there was an exception to this, in the case of a hair-brained young

midshipman; who stated that he had dined at George's regimental mess,

and had there heard that George "had fallen in love with some young

lady, and had fought with her brother or uncle, or a soldier-officer, he

did not know which."

Meagre as all this information was, it decided Sir Henry Delmé.

He wrote a long letter to Emily, in which he expressed a hope that both

George and himself would soon be with her, and immediately prepared for

his departure.

Ere we follow him on his lonely journey, let us turn to those he left

behind. Mrs. Glenallan and Emily decided on at once leaving Leamington

for their own home. The marriage of the latter was deferred; and as

Clarendon confessed that his period of probation was a very happy one,

he acquiesced cheerfully in the arrangement. Emily called on the

Vernons, and finding that Julia was not at home, wrote her a kind

farewell; secretly hoping that at some future period they might be more

nearly related. The sun was sinking, as the travellers neared Delmé. The

old mansion looked as calm as ever. The blue smoke curled above its

sombre roof; and the rooks sailed over the chimneys, flapping their

wings, and cawing rejoicefully, as they caught the first glimpse of

their lofty homes. Emily let down the carriage window, and with sunshiny

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 world's good--of him, who from being the

deceived, has become the deceiver--of the rash sensualist, who plunging

into vice, thinks he can forget;--could we but know the train of

events, that have brought the stamping madman to his bars--and his

cell--and his realms of phantasy;--or search the breast of her, who

lets concealment "feed on her damask cheek"--who prays blessings on

him, who hath wasted her youthful charms--then mounts with virgin soul

to heaven:--we, 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 George's 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 George's 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

mind--sickness have wasted his body. Nor was his uncertainty regarding

George, Delmé's 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 her--her 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 heart's 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 France's 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 arrived--the vessel was about to

return--her canvas was already loosened--the blue Peter streaming in the

wind. Delmé hesitated not an instant, but threw himself into a boat, and

was rowed alongside. The yacht's commander was a lieutenant in our

service, although a Maltese by birth. He at once entered into Sir

Henry's views, and felt delighted at the prospect of a companion in his

voyage. A short time elapsed--the anchor was up--the white sails began

to fill--Sir Henry was once more on the wide sea.

What a feeling of loneliness, almost of despair, infects the landsman's

mind, as he recedes from an unfamiliar port--sees crowds watching

listlessly his vessel's departure--crowds, 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

more--hollow-hearted friendship proffers not its hand to sting--love

exercises not its fatal sorcery--foes are afar--and 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 vessel's side,

and in idleness of spirit ponder on bygone scene, that has brought us

anything but happiness,--to gaze on the curling waves, as impelled by

the boisterous wind, we ride o'er the angry waters, lashed by the sable

keel to a yeasty madness,--to look afar upon the disturbed billow,

presenting its crested head like the curved neck of the war

horse,--_then_ to mark the screaming sea bird, as, his bright eye

scanning the waters, he soars above the stormy main--its wide tumult

his delight--the roaring of the winds his melody--the 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.

Delmé's 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!--the loss of his parent--the

world's first opening--bitter partings--painful misgivings--the lone

bivouac--the marshalling of squadrons--the fierce charge--the

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 home--saw

hands uplifted in gratitude--was cheered by a brother's greeting, and

subdued by a sister's 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 vessel's

course towards the Genoese gulf. They then took a direction nearly

south, steering between Corsica and Sardinia on the one hand--Italy on

the other.

Delmé had an opportunity of noting the outward aspect of Napoleon's

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

monarchy's semblance, the ruler of the petty isle could forget that he

had been master of the world?

How think that diplomacy's 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 represented--his arms

folded--watching intently the ocean--and ambition's 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 poet's

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

frequent--the low land appeared--they were signalled from the

palace--the point of St. Elmo was turned--and 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 Baraca's 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 England--the

_then_ spotless banner of France--and 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 when--the Moslem humbled--they 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 belt--priests and friars--Maltese women in

national costume sat side by side. Occasionally, a gig, pulled by man of

war's 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 appeared to be some doubts, whether, as

a precaution, some quarantine would not be imposed. The superintendent

of quarantine was rowed alongside, chiefly for the purpose of regulating

this. The spirited little commander of the yacht, however, was not at

all desirous of any such arrangement; and after some energetic appeals

on his part, met by cautious remonstrances on the part of the other,

their pratique was duly accorded.

During the discussion with the superintendent, Sir Henry had enquired

from the health officer, as to where he should find George, and was

informed that his regiment was quartered at Floriana, one of Valletta's

suburbs. In a short time a boat from the yacht was lowered, and the

commander prepared to accompany the government courier with his

dispatches to the palace.

Previous to leaving the deck, he hailed a boat alongside--addressed the

boatmen in their native language--and consigned Sir Henry to their

charge. Twilight was deepening into night as Delmé left the vessel. The

harbour had lost much of its bustle; lights were already gleaming from

the town, and as seen in some of the loftiest houses, looked as if

suspended in the air above. Our traveller folded his cloak around him,

and was rowed swiftly towards the shore.

Chapter VII.

The Young Greek.

"But not in silence pass Calypso's isles,

The sister tenants of the middle deep."

* * * * *

"Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone,

But trust not this; too easy youth, beware!

A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous throne.

And thou mayst find a new Calypso there."

Night had set in before Sir Henry reached the shore. The boatmen, in

broken, but intelligible English, took the trouble of explaining, that

they must row him to a point higher up the harbour, than the landing

place towards which the commander's gig was directing its course, on

account of his brother's regiment being quartered at Floriana. Landing

on the quay, they took charge of Delmé's portmanteau, and conducted him

through an ascending road, which seemed to form a part of the

fortifications, till they arrived in front of a closed gate. They were

challenged by the sentinel, and obliged to explain their business to a

non-commissioned officer, before they were admitted.

This form having been gone through, a narrow wicket was opened for their

passage. They crossed a species of common, and, after a few minutes'

walk, found themselves in front of the barrack. This was a plain stone

building, enclosing a small court, in the centre of which stood a marble

bason. The taste of some of the officers had peopled this with golden

fish; whilst on the bason's brim were placed stands for exotics, whose

fragrance charmed our sea-worn traveller, so lately emancipated from

those sad drawbacks to a voyage, the odours of tar and bilge water.

On either side, were staircases leading to the rooms above. A sentry was

slowly pacing the court, and gave Delmé the necessary directions for

finding George's room. Delmé's hand was on the latch, but he paused for

a moment ere he pressed it, for he pictured to himself his brother lying

on the bed of sickness. This temporary irresolution soon gave way to the

impulse of affection, and he hastily entered the chamber. George was

reading, and had his back turned towards him. As he heard the footsteps,

he half turned round; an enquiry was on his lip, when his eye caught

Henry's figure--a hectic flush suffused his cheek--he rose eagerly, and

threw himself into his brother's arms.

Ah! sweet is fraternal affection! As boys, we own its just, its

proper influence; but as men--how few of us can lay our hands on our

hearts, and in the time of manhood feel, that the thought of a

brother, still calls up the kindly glow which it did in earlier

years. Delmé strained his brother to his heart, whilst poor George's

tears flowed like a woman's.

"Ah, how," he exclaimed, "can I ever repay you for this?"

The first burst of joyful meeting over--Sir Henry scanned his brother's

features, and was shocked at the apparent havoc a few short years had

wrought. It was not that the cheek--whose carnation tint had once drawn

a comment from all who saw it--it was not that the cheek was bronzed by

an eastern sun. The alabaster forehead, showed that this was the natural

result, of exposure to climate. But the wan, the sunken features--the

unnatural brilliancy of the eye--the almost impetuous agitation of

manner--all these bespoke that more than even sickness had produced the

change:--that the mind, as well as body, must have had its sufferings.

"My dear, dear brother," said Henry, "tell me, I implore you, the

meaning of this. You look ill and distressed, and yet from you I did not

hear of sickness, nor do I know any reason for grief." George smiled

evasively; then, as if recollecting himself, struck his forehead. He

pressed his brother's arm, and led him towards a room adjoining the one

in which they were.

"It were in vain to tell you now, Henry, the eventful history of the

last few months; but see!" said he, as they together entered, "the

innocent cause of much that I have gone through."

Sir Henry Delmé started at the sight that greeted him. The room was

dimly lighted by a lamp, but the moon was up, and shed her full light

through part of the chamber. On a small French bed, whose silken linings

threw their rosy hue on the face of its fair occupant, lay as lovely a

girl as ever eye reposed on.

The heat had already commenced to become oppressive; the jalousies and

windows were thrown open. As the night breeze swept over the curtains,

and the tint these gave, trembled on that youthful beauty; Delmé might

well be forgiven, for deeming it was very long since he had seen a

countenance so exquisitely lovely. The face did indeed bear the stamp of

youth. Delmé would have guessed that the being before him, had barely

attained her fifteenth year, but that her bosom heaved like playful

billows, as she breathed her sighs in a profound slumber. Her style of

beauty for a girl was most rare. It had an almost infantine simplicity

of character, which in sleep was still more remarkable; for awake, those

eyes, now so still, did not throw unmeaning glances.

Such as these must Guarini have apostrophised, as he looked at his

slumbering love.

"Occhi! stelle mortale!

Ministri de miei mali!

Se chiusi m'uccidete,

Aperti,--che farete?"

Or, as Clarendon Gage translated it.

"Ye mortal stars! ye eyes that, e'en in sleep,

Can thus my senses chain'd in wonder keep,

Say, if when closed, your beauties thus I feel,

Oh, what when open, would ye not reveal?"

Her beauty owed not its peculiar charm to any regularity of feature; but

to an ineffable sweetness of expression, and to youth's freshest bloom.

Hafiz would have compared that smooth cheek to the tulip's flower. Her

eye-lashes, of the deepest jet, and silken gloss, were of uncommon

length. Her lips were apart, and disclosed small but exquisitely formed

teeth. Their hue was not that of ivory, but the more delicate though

more transient one of the pearl. One arm supported her head--its hand

tangled in the raven tresses--of the other, the snowy rounded elbow was

alone visible.

She met the eye, like a vision conjured up by fervid youth; when, ere

our waking thoughts dare to run riot in beauty's contemplation--sleep,

the tempter, gives to our disordered imaginations, forms and scenes,

which in after life we pant for, but meet them--never!

George put his finger to his lips, as Delmé regarded her--kissed her

silken cheek, and whispered,

"Acmé, carissima mia!"

The slumberer started--the envious eye-lid shrouded no more its lustrous

jewel--the wondering eyes dilated, as they met her lover's--and she

murmured something with that sweet Venetian lisp, in which the Greek

women breathe their Italian. But, as she saw the stranger, her face and

neck became suffused with crimson, and her small hand wrapped the snowy

sheet round her beauteous form.

Sir Henry, who felt equally embarrassed, returned to the room they

had left; whilst George lingered by the bedside of his mistress, and

told her it was his brother. Once more together, Sir Henry turned

towards George.

"For God's sake," said he, "unravel this mystery! Who is this young

creature?"

"Not now!" said his brother, "let us reserve it for to-morrow, and talk

only of home. Acmé has retired earlier than usual--she has been

complaining." And he commenced with a flushed brow and rapid voice, to

ask after those he loved.

"And so, dearest Emily will soon be married. I am glad of it; you speak

so well of Gage! I wish I had stayed three weeks longer in England, and

I should have seen him. We shall miss her in the flower garden, Henry!

Yes! and every where else! And how is my kind aunt? I forgot to thank

her when I last wrote to Delmé, for making Fidèle a parlour inmate!--and

I don't think she likes dogs generally either!--And Mrs. Wilcox! as

demure as ever?--Do you recollect the trick I played her the last April

I was at home?--And my favourite pony! does _he_ still adorn the

paddock, or is he gone at last? Emily wrote me he could hardly support

himself out of the shed. And the old oak--have you railed it round as I

advised? And the deer--Is my aunt still as tenacious of killing them? I

suppose Emily's pet fawn is a fine antlered gentleman by this time. And

your charger, Henry--how is he? And Mr. Sims? and the new green house?

Does the aviary succeed? did you get my slips of the blood orange? have

the Zante melon seeds answered? And the daisy of Delmé, Fanny Porter--is

she married? I stole a kiss the day I left. And so the coachman is dead?

and you have given the reins to Jenkins, and have taken my little fellow

on your own establishment? And Ponto? and Ranger? and my friend Guess?"

Here George paused, quite out of breath; and his brother, viewing with

some alarm his nervous agitation, attempted to answer his many queries;

determined in his own mind, not to seek the explanation he so much

longed for, until a more favourable period for demanding it arrived. The

brothers continued conversing on English topics till a late hour, when

Henry rose to retire.

"I cannot," said George, "give you a bed here to-night; but my servant

shall show you the way to an hotel; and in the course of to-morrow, we

will take care to have a room provided for you. You must feel harassed:

will nine be too early an hour for breakfast?"

It was a beautiful night, still and starry. Till they arrived in the

busy street, no sound could be heard, but the cautious opening of the

lattice, answering the signal of the guitar. Escorted by his guide,

Delmé entered Valletta, which is bustling always, even at night; but was

more than usually so, as there happened to be a fête at the palace. As

they passed through the Strado Teatro, the soldier pointed out the

Opera-house; although from the lateness of the hour, Rossini's melodies

were hushed. From a neighbouring café, however, festive sounds

proceeded; and Delmé, catching the words of an unfamiliar language,

paused before the door to recognise the singer. The table at which he

sat, was so densely enveloped in smoke, that it was some time before he

could make out the forms of the party, which consisted of some jovial

British midshipmen, and some Tartar-looking Russians. One of the Russian

officers was charming his audience with a chanson à boire, acquired on

the banks of the Vistula, His compatriots were yelling the chorus most

unmercifully. A few calèche drivers, waiting for their fares, and two or

three idle Maltese, were pacing outside the cafe, and appeared to regard

the scene as one of frequent occurrence, and calculated to excite but

little interest. His guide showed Delmé the hotel, and was dismissed;

and Sir Henry, preceded by an obsequious waiter, was introduced to a

spacious apartment facing the street.

It was long ere sleep visited him. He had many subjects on which to

ruminate; there were many points which the morrow would clear up. His

mind was too busy to permit him to rest.

When he did, however, close his eyes; he slept soundly, and did not

awake till the broad glare of day, penetrating through the Venetian

blinds, disclosed to him the unfamiliar apartment at Beverley's.

Chapter VIII.

The Invalid.

"'Mid many things most new to ear and eye,

The pilgrim rested here his weary feet."

As Sir Henry Delmé stepped from the hotel into the street, the sun's

rays commenced to be oppressive, and, although it was only entering the

month of May, served to remind him that he was in a warmer clime. The

scene was already a bustling one. The shopkeepers were throwing water

on the hot flag stones, and erecting canvas awnings in front of their

doors. In the various cafés might be seen the subservient waiters,

handing round the small gilded cup, which contained thick Turkish

coffee, or carrying to some old smoker the little pipkin, whence he was

to light his genial cigar. In front of one of these cafés, some

English officers were collected, sipping ices, and criticising the

relieving of the guard. Turning a corner of the principal street, a

group of half black and three-parts naked children assaulted our

traveller, and vociferously invoked carità. They accompanied this

demand by the corrupted cry of "nix munjay"--nothing to eat,--which

they enforced by most expressive gestures, extending their mouths, and

exhibiting rows of ravenous-looking teeth. The calèche drivers, too,

were on the alert, and respectfully taking off their turbans, proffered

their services to convey the Signore to Floriana. Delmé declined their

offers, and, passing a draw-bridge which divides Valletta from the

country, made his way through an embrasure, and descending some half

worn stone steps--during which operation he was again surrounded by

beggars--he found himself within sight of the barracks. Acmé and George

were ready to receive him. The latter's eye lit, as it was wont to do,

on seeing his brother, whilst the young Greek appeared in doubt,

whether to rejoice at what gave him pleasure, or to stand in awe of a

relation, whose influence over George might shake her own. This did

not, however, prevent her offering Delmé her hand, with an air of great

frankness and grace. Nor was he less struck with her peculiar beauty

than he had been on the night previous. Her dress was well adapted to

exhibit her charms to the greatest advantage. Her hair was parted in

front, and smoothly combed over her neck and shoulders, descending to

her waist. Over her bosom, and fastened by a chased silver clasp, was

one of the saffron handkerchiefs worn by the Parganot women. A jacket

of purple velvet, embroidered with gold, fitted closely to her figure.

Round her waist was a crimson girdle, fastened by another enormous

broach, or rather embossed plate of silver. A Maltese gold rose chain

of exquisite workmanship was flung round her neck, to which depended a

locket, one side of which held, encased in glass, George's hair braided

with her own; the other had a cameo, representing the death of the

patriot Marco Bozzaris.

"Giorgio tells me," said she, "that you speak Italian, at which I am

very glad; for his efforts to teach me English have quite failed. Do you

know you quite alarmed me last night, and I really think it was too bad

of George introducing you when he did;" and she placed her hand on her

lover's shoulder, and looked in his face confidingly. In spite of the

substance of her speech, and the circumstances under which Delmé saw

her, he could not avoid feeling an involuntary prepossession in her

favour. Her manner had little of the polish of art, but much of nature's

witching simplicity; and Sir Henry felt surprised at the ease and

animation of the whole party. Acmé presided at the breakfast table, with

a grace which many a modern lady of fashion might envy; and during the

meal, her conversation, far from being dull or listless, showed that she

had much talent, and that to a quick perception of nature's charms, she

united great enthusiasm in their pursuit. The meal was over, when the

surgeon of the regiment was announced, and introduced by George to Sir

Henry. After making a few inquiries as to the invalid's state of health,

he proposed to Delmé, taking a turn in the botanical garden, which was

immediately in front of their windows.

Sir Henry eagerly grasped at the proposition; anxious, as he felt

himself, to ascertain the real circumstances connected with his

brother's indisposition. They strolled through the garden, which was

almost deserted--for none but dogs and Englishmen, to use the expression

of the natives, court the Maltese noon-day sun,--and the surgeon at once

entered into George's history. He was a man of most refined manners, and

a cultivated intellect, and his professional familiarity with horrors,

had not diminished his natural delicacy of feeling. His narrative was

briefly thus:--

George Delmé's bosom companion had been an officer of his own age and

standing in the service, with whom he had embarked when leaving England.

Their intercourse had ripened into the closest friendship. George had

met Acmé, although the surgeon knew not the particulars of the

rencontre,--had confided to his friend the acquaintance he had made--and

had himself introduced Delancey at the house where Acmé resided. Whether

her charms really tempted the friend to endeavour to supplant George,

or whether he considered the latter's attentions to the young Greek to

be without definite object, and undertaken in a spirit of indifference,

the narrator could not explain; but it was not long before Delancey

considered himself as a principal in the transaction. Acmé, whose

knowledge of the world was slight, and whose previous seclusion from

society, had rendered her timidity excessive, considered that her best

mode of avoiding importunities she disliked, and attentions that were

painful to her, would be to speak to George himself on the subject.

By this time, the latter, quite fascinated by her beauty and

simplicity, and deeming, as was indeed the fact, that his love was

returned, needed not other inquietudes than those his attachment gave

him. The pride of ancestry and station on the one hand--on the other,

a deep affection, and a wish to act nobly by Acmé--caused an internal

struggle which made him open to any excitement, nervously alive to any

wrong. He sought his friend, and used reproaches, which rendered it

imperative that they should meet as foes. Delancey was wounded; and

as _he_ thought--and it was long doubtful whether it _were_

so--_mortally_. He beckoned George Delmé to his bedside--begged him to

forgive him--told him that his friendship had been the greatest source

of delight to him--a friendship which in his dying moments he begged

to renew--that far from feeling pain at his approaching dissolution,

he conceived that he had merited all, and only waited his full and

entire forgiveness to die happy. George Delmé wrung his hands in the

bitterness of despair--prayed him to live for his sake--told him, that

did he not, his own life hereafter would be one of the deepest

misery,--that the horrors of remorse would weigh him down to his

grave. The surgeon was the first to terminate a scene, which he

assured Delmé was one of the most painful it had ever been his lot to

witness. This meeting, though of so agitating a nature, seemed to have

a beneficial effect on the wounded man. He sunk into a sweet sleep;

and on awaking, his pulse was lower, and his symptoms less critical.

He improved gradually, and was now convalescent. But it was otherwise

with George Delmé. He sought the solitude of his chamber, a prey to

the agonies of a self-reproaching spirit. He considered himself

instrumental in taking the life of his best friend--of one, richly

endowed with the loftiest feelings humanity can boast. His nerves

previously had been unstrung; body and mind sank under the picture his

imagination had conjured up. His servant was alarmed by startling

screams, entered his room, and found his master in fearful

convulsions. A fever ensued, during which George's life hung by a

thread. To this succeeded a long state of unconsciousness,

occasionally broken by wild delirium.

During his illness, there was one who never left him--who smoothed his

pillow--who supported his head on her breast--who watched him as a

mother watches her first-born. It was the youthful Greek, Acmé Frascati.

The instant she heard of his danger, she left her home to tend him. No

entreaties could influence her, no arguments persuade. She would sit by

his bedside for hours, his feverish hand locked in hers, and implore him

to recover, to bless one who loved him so dearly. They could not part

them; for George, even in his delirious state, seemed to be conscious

that some one was near him, and, did she leave his side, would rise in

his bed, and look around him as if missing some accustomed object. In

his wilder flights, he would call passionately upon her, and beg her to

save his friend, who was lying so dead and still.

For a length of time, neither care nor professional skill availed.

Fearful was the struggle, between his disease, and a naturally hardy

constitution. Reason at last resumed her dominion. "I know not," said

the surgeon, "the particulars of the first dawning of consciousness. It

appears that Acmé was alone with him, and that it was at night. I found

him on my professional visit one morning, clear and collected, and his

mistress sobbing her thanks. I need perhaps hardly inform you," said the

narrator, "that George's gratitude to Acmé was vividly expressed. It was

in vain I urged on her the propriety of now leaving her lover. This was

met on both sides by an equal disinclination, and indeed obstinate

refusal; and I feared the responsibility I should incur, by enforcing a

separation which might have proved of dangerous consequence to my

patient. Alas! for human nature, Sir Henry! need it surprise you that

the consequences were what they are? Loving him with the fervency of one

born under an eastern sun--with the warm devotion of woman's first

love--with slender ideas of Christian morality--and with a mind

accustomed to obey its every impulse--need it, I say, surprise you, that

the one fell, and that remorse visited the other? To that remorse, do I

attribute what my previous communication may not have sufficiently

prepared you for; namely, the little dependence to be placed on the tone

of the invalid's mind. Reason is but as a glimmering in a socket; and

painful as my professional opinion may be to you, it is my duty to avow

it; and I frankly confess, that I entertain serious apprehensions, as to

the stability of his mind's restoration. It is on this account, that I

have felt so anxious that one of his relations should be near him.

Change of scene is absolutely necessary, as soon as change of scene can

be safely adopted. Every distracting thought must be avoided, and the

utmost care taken that no agitating topic is discussed in his presence.

These precautions may do much; but should they have no effect, which I

think possible; as a medical man, I should then recommend, what as a

member of his family may startle you. My advice would be, that if it be

ultimately found, that his feelings as regard this young girl, are such

as are likely to prevent or impede his mind's recovery; why I would then

at once allow him to make her any reparation he may think just.

"To what do you allude?" enquired Sir Henry.

"Why," continued the surgeon, "that if his feelings appear deeply

enlisted on that side of the question, and all our other modes have

failed in obtaining their object; that he should be permitted to marry

her as soon as he pleases. I see you look grave. I am not surprised you

should do so; but life is worth preserving, and Acmé, if not entirely to

our notions, is a good, a very good girl--warm-hearted and affectionate;

and it is not fair to judge her by our English standard. You will

however have time and scope, to watch yourself the progress and extent

of his disorder. I fear this is more serious than you are at present

aware of; but from your own observations, would I recommend and wish

your future line of conduct to be formed. May I trust my frankness has

not offended you?"

Sir Henry assured him, that far from this being the case, he owed

him many thanks for being thus explicit. Shaking him by the hand,

he returned to George's room with a clouded brow; perplexed how to

act, or how best discuss with his brother, the points connected

with his history.

Chapter IX.

The Narrative.

"The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impress'd,

Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch,

Her lips whose kisses pout to leave their nest,

Bid man be valiant ere he merit such;

Her glance how wildly beautiful--how much

Hath Phoebus woo'd in vain to spoil her cheek,

Which grows yet smoother from his amorous clutch,

Who round the north for paler dames would seek?

How poor their forms appear! how languid, wan, and weak."

Love! Heavenly love! by Plato's mind conceived, and Sicyon's artist

chiselled! not thou! night's offspring, springing on golden wing from

the dark bosom of Erebus! the first created, and the first creating: but

thou! immaculate deity; effluence of unspotted thought, and child of a

chaster age! where, oh where is now thy resting place?

Pensile in mid-heaven, gazest thou yet with seraphic sorrow on this,

the guilty abode of guilty man?--with pity's tear still mournest thou,

as yoked to the car of young desire, we bow the neck in degrading and

slavish bondage? Or dost thou, the habitant of some bright star, where

frailty such as ours is yet unknown, lend to lovers a rapture unalloyed

by passion's grosser sense; as, symphonious with the tremulous zephyr,

chastened vows of constancy are there exchanged? Ah! vainly does one

solitary enthusiast, in his balmy youth, for a moment conceive he really

grasps thee! 'tis but a fleeting phantasy, doomed to fade at the first

sneer of derision--and for ever vanish, as a false and fascinating world

stamps its dogmas on his heart! Celestial love! oh where may he yet find

thee? and a clear voice whispers, ETERNITY!

Hope! guide the fainting pilgrim! undying soul! shield him from the

world's venomed darts, as he painfully wends his toilsome way!

When Delmé returned to his brother, he found the latter anxiously

expecting him, and desirous of ascertaining the impression, which his

conversation with the surgeon had created.

But Delmé thought it more prudent, to defer the discussion of those

points, till he had heard from George himself, as to many circumstances

connected with Acmé's history, and had been able to form some personal

opinion regarding the health of the invalid. He therefore begged

George, if he felt equal to the task, to avail himself of the

opportunity of Acmé's absence, to tell him how he had first met her. To

this George willingly assented; and as there is ever a peculiarity in

foreign scenes and habits, which awakens interest, we give his story in

his own language.

"There are some old families here, Henry," began the invalid, "whose

names are connected with some of the proudest, which the annals of the

Knights of St. John of Jerusalem can boast. They are for the most part

sunk in poverty, and possess but little of the outward trappings of

rank. But their pride is not therefore the less; and rather than have it

wounded, by being put in collision with those with whom in worldly

wealth they are unable to compete, they prefer the privacy of

retirement; and are rarely seen, and more rarely known, by any of the

English residents, whom they distrust and dislike. It is true, there are

a few families, some of the male members of which have accepted

subordinate situations under government: and these have become

habituated to English society, and meet on terms of tolerable

cordiality, the English whose acquaintance they have thus made. But

there are others, as I have said, whose existence is hardly recognised,

and who vegetate in some lone palazzo; brooding over the decay of their

fortunes--never crossing the threshold of their mansions--except when

religious feelings command them to attend a mass, or public procession.

Of such a family was Acmé a member. By birth a Greek, she was a witness

to many of the bloody scenes which took place at the commencement of the

struggle for Grecian freedom. She was herself present at the murder of

both her parents. Her beauty alone saved her from sharing their fate.

One of the Turks, struck with, her expression of childish sorrow,

interfered in her behalf, and permitted a friend and neighbour to save

her life and his own, by taking shipping for one of the islands in our

possession. After residing in Corfu for some months, she received an

invitation from her father's brother-in-law, a member of an ancient

Maltese family; and for the last few years has spent a life, if not gay,

at least free from a repetition of those sanguinary scenes, which have

lent their impress to a sensitive mind, and at moments impart a

melancholy tinge, to a disposition by nature unusually joyous. It was on

a festa day, dedicated to the patron saint of the island, when no

Maltese not absolutely bed-ridden, but would deem it a duty, to witness

the solemn and lengthy procession which such a day calls forth; that I

first met Acmé Frascati.

"I was alone in the Strada Reale, and strolling towards the Piazza, when

my attention was directed to what struck me as the loveliest face I had

ever seen.

"Acmé, for it was her, was drest in the costume of the island; and,

although a faldette is not the best dress for exhibiting a figure,

there was a grace and lightness in her carriage, that would have

arrested my attention, even had I not been riveted by her countenance.

She was on the opposite side of the street to myself, and was attended

by an old Moorish woman, who carried an illumined missal. Of these

women, several may yet be seen in Malta, looking very Oriental and

duenna-like. As I stopped to admire her, she suddenly attempted to

cross to the side of the street where I stood. At the same moment, I

observed a horse attached to a calèche galloping furiously towards her.

It was almost upon her ere Acmé saw her danger. The driver, anxious to

pass before the procession formed, had whipped his horse till it became

unmanageable, and it was now in vain that he tried to arrest its

progress. A natural impulse induced me to rush forward, and endeavour

to save her. She was pale and trembling, as I caught her and placed her

out of the reach of danger; but before I could touch the pavement, I

felt myself struck by the wheel of the carriage, was thrown down, and

taken up insensible. When consciousness returned, I found they had

conveyed me to a neighbouring shop, and that medical attendance had

been procured. But more than all, I noticed the solicitude of Acmé.

Until the surgeon had given a favourable report, she could not address

me, but when this had been pronounced, she overwhelmed me with thanks,

begged to know where I would wish to be taken, and rested not until her

own family calèche came up, and she saw me, attended by the Moorish

woman, on the road to Floriana.

"My accident, though not a very serious one, proved of sufficient

consequence, to confine me to my room for some time; and during that

period, not a day passed, that did not give me proof of the anxiety of

the young Greek for my restoration. I need not say that one of my

first visits was to her. Her family received me as they would an

absent brother. The obligations they considered I had conferred,

outweighed all prejudices which they might have imbibed against my

nation. On _my_ part, charmed with my adventure, delighted with Acmé,

and gratified by the kindness of her relations, I endeavoured to

increase their favourable opinion by all the means in my power. Acmé

and myself were soon more than friends, and I found my visits gave and

imparted pleasure.

"I now arrive at the unhappy part of my narrative. How do I wish it were

effaced from my memory. You may remember how, in all my letters to

Delmé, I made mention of my dear friend Delancey. We were indeed dear

friends. We joined at the same time, lived together in England,

embarked together, and when, one dreadful night off the African coast,

the captain of the transport thought we must inevitably drift on the

lee shore, we solaced each other, and agreed that, if it came to the

worst, on one plank would we embark our fortunes. On our landing in

Malta, we were inseparable, and my first impulse was to inform Delancey

of all that had occurred, and to introduce him to a house where I felt

so happy. I must here do him the justice to state, that whether I was

partly unaware of the extent of my own feelings towards Acmé, or

whether I felt a morbid sense of delicacy, in alluding to what I knew

to be the first attachment I had ever formed, I am unable to inform

you! but the only circumstance I concealed from my friend was my

attachment to the young Greek. Perhaps to this may be mainly attributed

what happened. God, who knows all secrets, knows this; but I may now

aver, that my friend, with many faults, has proved himself to have as

frank and ingenuous a spirit, as noble ideas of friendship, as can

exist in the human breast. For some time, matters continued thus. We

were both constant visitors at Acmé's house. With unparalleled

blindness, I never mistrusted the feelings of my friend. I never

contemplated that _he_ also might become entangled with the young

beauty. I considered her as my own prize, and was more engaged in

analysing my own sensations, and in vainly struggling against a

passion, which I was certain could not meet my family's approval, than

at all suspicious that fresh causes of uneasiness might arise in

another quarter. As Acmé's heart opened to mine, I found her with

feelings guileless and unsuspecting as a child's; although these were

warm, and their expression but little restrained. There was a confiding

simplicity in her manner, that threw an air over all she said or did,

which quite forbade censure, and excited admiration. My passion became

a violent and an all-absorbing one. I had made up my mind, to throw

myself on the kindness of my family, and endeavour to obtain all your

consents. Thus was I situated, when one day Acmé came up to me with

frankness of manner, but a tremulous voice, to beg I would use my

interest with my friend, to prevent his coming to see her.

"'Indeed, indeed,' said she, 'I have tried to love him as a friend, as

the friend of my life's preserver, but ever since he has spoken as he

now does, his visits are quite unpleasant. My family begged me to tell

you. They would have asked him to come no more, but were afraid you

might be angry. Will you still come to us, and love us all, if they tell

him this? If you will not, he shall still come; for indeed we could not

offend one to whom we owe so much.'

"'_I_, too,' said I to Acmé, '_I_, too, dearest, ought perhaps to leave

you, _I_, too'--

"'Oh, never! never!' said she, as she turned to me her dark eyes, bright

with humid radiance. 'We cannot thus part!'

"She _did_, then, love me! I clasped her to my arms--our lips clung

together in one rapturous intoxicating embrace.

"Yet, even in that moment of delirium, Henry, I told her of you, and of

the many obstacles which still presented themselves to retard or even

prevent our union. I sought my friend Delancey, and remonstrated with

him. He appeared to doubt my right to question his motives. Success made

me feel still more injured. I showered down reproaches. He could not

have acted differently. We met! and I saw him fall! Till then, I had

considered myself as the injured man; but as I heard him on the ground

name his mother, and one dearer still--as he took from his breast the

last gift _she_ had made him--as he begged of _me_ to be its bearer; I

then first felt remorse. He was taken to his room. Even the surgeon

entertained no hopes. He again called me to his side; I heard his noble

acknowledgment, his reiterated vows of friendship, the mournful tones of

his farewell. I entered this room a heart-broken man. I felt my pulse

throb fearfully, a gasping sensation was in my throat, my head swam

round, and I clung to the wall for support. The next thing of which I

have any recollection, was the dawn of reason breaking through my

troubled dreams. It was midnight--all was still. The fitful lamp shone

dimly through my chamber. I turned on my side--and, oh! by its light, I

saw the face I most loved--that face, whose gentle lineaments, were each

deeply and separately engraven on my heart. I saw her bending over me

with a maiden's love and a mother's solicitude. As I essayed to

speak--as my conscious eye met her's--as the soft words of affection

were involuntarily breathed by my feeble lips--how her features lit up

with joy! Oh, say not, Henry, till you have experienced such a moment of

transport, say not that the lips which then vowed eternal fidelity, that

the young hearts which _then_ plighted their truth, and vowed to love

for ever--oh call not these guilty!

"Since that time my health has been extremely precarious. Whether the

events crowded too thickly on me, or that I have not fully recovered my

health, or--which I confess I think is the case--that my compunctions

for my conduct to Acmé weigh me down, I know not; but it is not always,

my dear Henry, that I can thus address you. There are hours when I am

hardly sensible of what I do, when my brain reels from its oppression.

At such times, Acmé is my guardian angel--my tender nurse--my

affectionate attendant! In my lucid intervals, she is what you see

her--the gentle companion--the confiding friend. I love her, Henry, more

than I can tell you! I shall never be able to leave her! From Acmé you

may learn more of those dreary hours, which appear to me like waste

dreams in my existence. She has watched by my bed of sickness, till she

knows every turn of the disorder. From her, Henry, may you learn all."

Thus did George conclude his tale of passion; which Delmé mused over,

but refrained from commenting on.

Soon afterwards, George's calèche, in which he daily took exercise, was

announced as being at the door. The brothers entered, and left Floriana.

Chapter X.

The Calèche.

"The car rattling through the stony street."

For an easy conveyance, commend us to a Maltese calèche! Many a time,

assaulted by the blue devils, have we taken refuge in its solacing

interior--have pulled down its silken blinds, and unseeing and unseen,

the motion, like that of the rocking-cradle to the petulant child of

less mature growth, has restored complacency, and lulled us to good

humour. The calèche, the real calèche, is, we believe, peculiar to

Malta. It is the carriage of the rich and poor--Lady Woodford may be

seen employing it, to visit her gardens at St. Antonio; and in the

service of the humblest of her subjects, will it be enlisted, as they

wend their way to a picnic in the campagna. Every variety of steed is

put in requisition for its draught.

We may see the barb, with nostril of fire, and mane playing with the

wind, perform a curvet, as he draws our aristocratic

countrywoman--aristocratic and haughty at least in Malta, although,

in England, perhaps a star of much less magnitude.

We may view too the over-burthened donkey, as he drags along some aged

vehicle, in which four fat smiling women, and one lean weeping child,

look forward to his emaciated carcase, and yet blame him for being slow.

And thou! patient and suffering animal, whose name has passed into a

proverb, until each vulgar wight looks on thee as the emblem of

obstinacy,--maligned mule! when dost thou appear to more advantage, more

joyous, or more self-satisfied, than when yoked to the Maltese calèche?

Who that has witnessed thee, taking the scanty meal from the hand of

thine accustomed driver, with whinnying voice, waving tail, thy long

ears pricked upwards, and thy head rubbing his breast, who that has

seen thee thus, will deny thee the spirit of gratitude?

Most injured of quadrupeds! if we ascend the rugged mountain's path,

where on either side, precipices frown, and the pines wave far--far

beneath--when one false step would plunge us, with our hopes, our fears,

and our vices, into the abyss of eternity; is it not to thee we trust?

Calumniated mule! go on thy way.

This world's standard is but little to be relied on, whether it be for

good, or whether it be for evil.

The motion of a calèche, such as we patronised, is an easy and luxurious

one--the pace, a fast trot or smooth canter, of seven miles an hour--and

with the blinds down, we have communed with ourselves, with as great

freedom, and as little fear of interruption, as if we had been crossing

the Zahara. The calèche men too are a peculiar and happy race--attentive

to their fares--masters of their profession--and with a cigar in their

cheek dexter, will troll you Maltese ditties till your head aches. Their

costume is striking. Their long red caps are thrown back over their

necks--their black curls hang down on each side of the face--and a

crimson, many-folded sash, girds in a waist usually extremely small.

Their neck, face, and breast, from continued exposure to the sun, are a

red copper colour. They are always without shoes and stockings; and even

our countrywomen, who pay much attention to the costume of their

drivers, have not yet ventured to encase their brawny feet in the

mysteries of leather. They run by the side of their calèches, the reins

in one hand--the whip in the other--cheering on their animals by a

constant succession of epithets, oaths, and invocations to their

favourite saint.

They are rarely fatigued, and may be seen beside their vehicles, urging

the horses, with the thermometer at 110°, and perhaps a stout-looking

Englishman inside, with white kerchief to his face, the image of languor

and lassitude.

Their horses gallop down steeps, which no English Jehu dare attempt; and

ascend and descend with safety and hardihood, stone steps which occur in

many parts of Valletta; and which would certainly present an

insurmountable obstacle to our steeds at home.

The proper period, however, to see a calèche man in his glory, is during

the carnival. Every calèche is in employ; and many a one which has

reposed for the twelvemonth previous, is at that time wheeled from its

accustomed shed, and put in requisition for some of pleasure's votaries.

Long lines of them continue to pass and repass in the principal street.

Their inmates are almost universally of the fair sex, and of the best

part of it, the young and beautiful. Cavaliers, with silken bags,

containing bon-bons, slung on their left arm, stand at intervals, ready

to discharge the harmless missiles, at those whom their taste approves

worthy of the compliment. Happy the young beauty, who, returning

homewards, sees the carpet of her calèche thickly strewn with these

dulcet favours! The driver is now in his element! He ducks his head, as

the misdirected sweetmeat approaches; he has an apt remark prompt for

the occasion. As he nears too the favoured inamorato, for whom he well

knows his mistress' sweetest smile is reserved--who already with his

right hand grasping the sugared favours, is prepared to lavish his whole

store on this one venture--how arch his look--how roguish his eye--as he

turns towards his donna, and speaks as plainly as words could do, "See!

there he is, he whom you love best!"

Ah! well may we delight to recal once more those minute details! ah!

well may we remember how--when our brow was smoothed with youth, as it

is now furrowed with care--when our eye sparkled from pleasure, as it is

now dimmed from time, or mayhap, tears--well may we love to remember,

how our whole hearts were engrossed in that mimic warfare. How

impatiently did we watch for _one_, amidst that crowded throng, for

one--whose beauty haunted us by day, and whose smile we dreamt over by

night. Well do we recal with what unexampled ingenuity, we laboured to

befit the snow white egg for a rare tenant--attar-gul. Well do we

remember how that face, usually so cloudless, became darkened almost to

a frown, as our heart's mistress saw the missile approach her. What a

radiant smile bewitched us, as it burst on her lap, and filled the air

with its fragrance! Truly we had our reward!

Delmé and George took a quiet drive, and enjoyed that sweet interchange

of ideas, that characterises the meeting of two brothers long absent

from each other.

They went in the direction of St. Julian's, a drive all our Maltese

friends will be familiar with. The road lay almost wholly by the sea

side. A gentle breeze was crisping the waters, and served to allay the

heat, which, at a more advanced period of the season, is by no means an

enviable one. Sun-shine seemed to beam on George's mind, as he once more

spoke of home ties, to one to whom those home ties were equally dear.

And gratefully did he bask in its rays! Long used to the verdant but

tame, beautiful but romantic landscapes, which the part of England he

resided in presented; the scenery around him, novel and picturesque,

struck Sir Henry forcibly. To one who has resided long in Malta, its

scenes may wear an aspect somewhat different. The limited country--the

ceaseless glare--the dust, or rather the pulverised rock--the

ever-present lizard, wary and quick, peeping out at each crevice--the

buzzing mosquito, inviting the moody philosopher to smite his own

cheek,--these things may come to be regarded as real grievances.

But Delmé, as a visitor, was pleased with what he saw. The promising

vineyards--the orange groves, with their glowing fruit and ample

foliage, "looking like golden lamps" in a dark night of leaves--the

thick leaves of the prickly pear--the purple sky above him, lending its

rich hue to the sea beside--the architectural beauties of the

cottages--the wide portico of the mansions--the flat terrace with its

balustrade, over which might be seen a fair face, half concealed by the

faldette, smilingly peering, and through whose pillars might be noted a

pretty ancle, and siesta-looking slipper--these were novelties, and

pleasing ones! Their drive over, Delmé felt more tranquil as to George's

state of mind, and more inclined to look on the bright side, as to his

future fortunes.

Acmé was waiting to receive them, and as she scanned George's features,

Delmé could not but observe the affectionate solicitude that marked her

glance and manner.

Let it not be thought we would make vice seductive!

Fair above all things is the pure affection of woman! happy he who may

regard it his! he may bask without a shade of distrust in its glorious

splendour, and permanently adore its holy beauty.

While, fascinating though be the concentred love of woman, whether

struggling in its passion--enraptured in its madness--or clinging and

loving on in its guilt: Man--that more selfish wanderer from virtue's

pale, that destroyer of his own best sympathies--will find too late that

a day of bitterest regret must arrive: a day when love shall exist no

more, or, linked with remorse, shall tear--a fierce vulture--at his very

heart strings.

Chapter XI.

The Colonel.

"Not such as prate of war, but skulk in peace."

Delmé strolled out half an hour before his brother's dinner hour, with

the intention of paying a visit of ceremony to the Colonel of George's

regiment. His house was not far distant. It had been the palazzo of one

of the redoubted Knights of St. John; and the massive gate at which Sir

Henry knocked for admittance, seemed an earnest, that the family, who

had owned the mansion, had been a powerful and important one. The door

was opened, and the servant informed Delmé, that Colonel Vavasour was on

the terrace.

The court yard through which they passed was extensive; and a spring

"Of living water from its centre rose,

Whose bubbling did a genial softness fling."

Ascending a lofty marble staircase, along which were placed a few

bronzed urns, Delmé crossed a suite of apartments--thrown open in the

Italian mode--and passing through a glass door, found himself on a wide

stone terrace, edged by pillars.

Immediately beneath this, was an orange grove, whose odours perfumed the

air. Colonel Vavasour was employed in reading a German treatise on light

infantry tactics. He received Sir Henry with great cordiality, and

proposed adjourning to the library. Delmé was pleased to observe, for it

corresponded with what he had heard of the man; that, with the exception

of the chef d'oeuvres of the English and German poets, the Colonel's

library, which was an extensive one, almost wholly consisted of such

books as immediately related to military subjects, or might be able to

bear on some branch of science connected with military warfare. Pagan,

and his follower Vauban, and the more matured treatises of Cormontaigne,

were backed by the works of that boast of the Low Countries, Coehorn;

and by the ingenious theories, as yet _but_ theories, of Napoleon's

minister of war, Carnot.

Military historians, too, crowded the shelves. _There_ might be noted

the veracious Polybius--the classic Xenophon--the scientific

Cæsar--the amusing Froissart, with his quaint designs, and quainter

discourses--and many an author unknown to fame, who in lengthy quarto,

luxuriated on the lengthy campaigns of Marlborough or Eugene; those wise

commanders, who flourished in an era, when war was a well debated

scientific game of chess; when the rival opponents took their time,

before making their moves; and the loss of a pawn was followed by the

loss of a kingdom. _There_ might you be enamoured with even a soldier's

hardships, as your eye glanced on the glowing circumstantial details of

Kincaid;--or you might glory in your country's Thucydides, as you read

the nervous impassioned language of a Napier. _Thou_, too, Trant! our

friend! wert there! Ah, why cut off in thy prime? Did not thy spirit

glow with martial fire? Did not thy conduct give promise, that not in

vain were those talents accorded thee? What hadst _thou_ done, to sink

thus early to a premature inglorious grave? Nor were our friends Folard

and Jomini absent; nor eke the minute essays of a Jarry, who taught the

aspiring youths of Great Britain all the arts of castrametation. With

what gusto does he show how to attack Reading; or how, with the greatest

chance of success, to defend the tranquil town of Egham. _Here_ would he

sink trous de loup on the ancient Runnimede, whereby the advance of the

enemy's cavalry would be frustrated; _there_ would he cut down an

abattis, or plant chevaux de frise. At _this_ winding of England's

noblest river, would he establish a pontoon bridge; the approaches to

which he would enfilade, by a battery placed on yonder height.

Before relating the conversation between Delmé and Colonel Vavasour, it

may not be improper to say a few words as to the character of the

latter. When we say that he was looked up to as an officer, and adored

as a man, by the regiment he had commanded for years; we are not

according light praise.

Those who have worn a coat of red, or been much conversant with

military affairs, will appreciate the difficult, the ungrateful task,

devolving on a commanding officer.

How few, how very few are those, who can command respect, and ensure

love. How many, beloved as men, are imposed on, and disregarded as

officers. How many are there, whose presence on the parade ground awes

the most daring hearts, who are passed by in private life, with

something like contumely, and of whom, in their private relations, few

speak, and yet fewer are those who wish kindly. When deserving in each

relation, how frequently do we see those who want the manner, the tact,

to show themselves in their true colours. An ungracious refusal--ay! or

an ungraciously accorded favour! may raise a foe who will be a bar to a

man's popularity for years:--whilst how many a free and independent

spirit is there, who criticises with a keener eye than is his wont, the

sayings and doings of his commanding officer, solely because he _is_

such. How apt is such an one to misrepresent a word, or create a wrong

motive for an action! how slow in giving praise, lest _he_ should be

deemed one of the servile train! Pass we over the host of petty

intrigues--the myriads of conflicting interests:--show not how the

partial report of a favourite, may make the one in authority unjust to

him below him; or how the false tale-bearer may induce the one below to

be unjust to his superior. Colonel Vavasour was not only considered in

the field, as one of England's bravest soldiers; but was yet more

remarkable for his gentlemanly deportment, and for the attention he ever

paid to the interior economy of his corps. This gave a tone to the ----

mess, almost incredible to one, who has not witnessed, what the constant

presence of a commanding officer, if he be a real gentleman, is enabled

to effect. Colonel Vavasour had ideas on the duties of a soldier, which

to many appeared original. We cannot but think, that the Colonel's

ideas, in the main, were right. He disliked his officers marrying; often

stating that he considered a sword and a wife as totally incompatible.

"Where," would he say, "is _then_ that boasted readiness of purpose,

that spirit of enterprise? Can an officer _then_, with half a dozen

shirts in his portmanteau, and a moderate quantity of cigars, if he be a

smoker, declare himself ready to sail over half the world?"

The Colonel would smile as he said this, but would continue with a

graver tone.

"No, there is a choice, and I blame no one for making his election:--a

soldier's hardships and a soldier's joys;--or domestic happiness, and an

inglorious life:--but to attempt to blend the two, is, I think,

injudicious."

On regimental subjects, he was what is technically called, a regulation

man. No innovations ever crept into his regiment, wanting the sanction

of the Horse Guards; whilst every order emanating from thence, was as

scrupulously adopted and adhered to, as if his own taste had prompted

the change. On parade, Colonel Vavasour was a strict disciplinarian;--but

his sword in the scabbard, he dropped the officer in his manner,--it

was impossible to do so in his appearance,--and no one ever heard him

discuss military points in a place inappropriate. He knew well how to

make the distinction between his public and his private duties. On an

officer under his command, being guilty of any dereliction of duty, he

would send for him, and reprimand him before the assembled corps, if he

deemed that such reprimand would be productive of good effect to others;

but--the parade dismissed--he would probably take this very officer's

arm, or ask to accompany him in his country ride.

Colonel Vavasour had once a young and an only brother under his command.

In no way did he relax discipline in his favour. Young Vavasour had

committed a breach of military etiquette. He was immediately ordered by

his brother to be placed in arrest, and would inevitably have been

brought to a court martial, had not the commanding officer of the

station interfered. During the whole of this time, the Colonel's manner

towards him continued precisely the same. They lived together as usual;

and no man, without a knowledge of the circumstance, could have been

aware that any other but a fraternal tie bound them together. What was

more extraordinary, the younger brother saw all this in its proper

light; and whilst he clung to and loved his brother, looked up with awe

and respect to his commanding officer.

As for Colonel Vavasour, no one who saw his convulsed features, as his

brother fell heading a gallant charge of his company at Waterloo, could

have doubted for a moment his deep-rooted affection. From that period, a

gloomy melancholy hung about him, which, though shaken off in public,

gave a shade to his brow, which was very perceptible.

In person, he was particularly neat; being always the best dressed

officer in his regiment, "How can we expect the men to pay attention to

_their_ dress, when we give them reason to suppose we pay but little

attention to our own?" was a constant remark of his. And here we may

observe, that no class of men have a stricter idea of the propriety of

dress, than private soldiers. To dress well is half a passport to a

soldier's respect; whilst on the other hand, it requires many excellent

qualities, to counterbalance in his mind a careless and slovenly

exterior. Colonel Vavasour had an independent fortune, which he spent at

the head of his regiment. Many a dinner party was given by him, for

which the corps he commanded obtained the credit; many a young officer

owed relief from pecuniary embarrassments, which might otherwise have

overwhelmed him, to the generosity of his Colonel. He appeared not to

have a wish, beyond the military circle around him, although those who

knew him best, said he had greater talent, and possessed the art of

fascinating in general society, more than most men.

"I am glad to see you here, Sir Henry," said he to Delmé, "although I

cannot but wish that happier circumstances had brought you to us. I have

a very great esteem for your brother, and am one of his warmest well

wishers. But I must not neglect the duties of hospitality. You must

allow me to present you to my officers at mess this evening. Our dinner

hour is late; but were it otherwise, we should miss that delightful hour

for our ride, when the sun's rays have no longer power to harm us, and

the sea breezes waft us a freshness, which almost compensates for the

languor attending the summer's heat."

Delmé declined his invitation, stating his wish to dine with his brother

on that day; but expressed himself ready to accept his kind offer on the

ensuing one.

"Thank you!" said Colonel Vavasour, "it is natural you should wish to

see your brother; and it pains me to think that poor George cannot yet

dine with his old friends. Have you seen Mr. Graham?"

Delmé replied in the affirmative; adding, that he could not but feel

obliged to him for his frankness.

"I am glad you feel thus," said Vavasour, "it emboldens me to address

you with equal candour; and, painful as our advice must be, I confess I

am inclined to side with George's medical attendant. I have myself been

witness to such lamentable proofs of George's state of mind--he has so

often, with the tears in his eyes, spoken to me of his feelings with

regard to Acmé Frascati, that I certainly consider these as in a great

measure the cause, and his state of mind the effect. I speak to you,

Sir Henry, without disguise. I had once a brother--the apple of my

eye--I loved him as I shall never love human being more; and, as God is

my witness, under similar circumstances, frankness is what I should have

prayed for,--my first wish would have been at once to know the worst.

Mr. Graham has told you of his long illness--his delirium--and has, I

conclude, touched upon the present state of his patient. Shall I shock

you, when I add that his lucid intervals are not to be depended upon;

that occasionally the wildest ideas, the most extraordinary projects,

are conceived by him? I wish you not, to act on any thing that Mr.

Graham, or that I may tell you, but to judge for yourself. Without this,

indeed, you would hardly understand the danger of these mental

paroxysms. So fearful are they, that I confess I should be inclined to

adopt any remedy, make any sacrifices which promised the remotest

possibility of success."

"I trust," said Sir Henry, "there are no sacrifices I would not

personally make for my only brother, were I once convinced these were

for his real benefit."

"I frankly mean," said Vavasour, "that I think almost the only chance of

restoring him, is by allowing him to marry Acmé Frascati."

Delmé's brow clouded.

"Think not," continued he, "that I am ignorant of what such a

determination must cost you. _I_, too, Sir Henry,"--and the old man drew

his commanding form to its utmost height,--"_I_ too, know what must be

the feelings of a descendant of noble ancestors. I know them well; and

in more youthful days, the blood boiled in my veins as I thought of the

name they had left me. Thank heaven! I have never disgraced it. But were

_I_ situated as _you_ are, and the dead Augustus Vavasour in the place

of the living George Delmé, I would act as I am now advising you to do.

I speak solely as to the expediency of the measure. From what I have

stated--from my situation in life--from my character--you may easily

imagine that all my prejudices are enlisted on the other side of the

question. But I must here confess that I see something inexpressibly

touching in the devotion which that young Greek girl displayed, during

the whole of George's illness. But putting this on one side, and

considering the affair as one of mere expediency, I think you will

finally agree with me, that however desperate the remedy, some such must

be applied. And now, let me assure you, that nothing could have induced

me to obtrude thus, my feelings and opinions on a comparative stranger,

were it not that that stranger is the brother of one in whose welfare I

feel the liveliest interest."

Sir Henry Delmé expressed his thanks, and inwardly determined that he

would form no opinion till he had himself been witness to some act of

mental aberration. It is true, he had heard the medical attendant give a

decided opinion,--from George's own lips he had an avowal of much that

had been stated,--and now he had heard one, for whom he could not but

feel great respect--one who had evidently no interest in the

question--declare his sentiments as strongly. We are all sanguine as to

what we wish. It may be, that a hope yet lurked in Delmé's breast, that

these accounts might be unconsciously exaggerated, or that his brother's

state of health was now more established than heretofore.

On returning to Floriana, Delmé found George and the blushing Acmé

awaiting him. A delightful feeling is that, of again finding ourselves

with those from whom we have long been parted, once more engaged in the

same round of familiar avocations, once more re-acting the thousand

little trifles of life which we have so often acted before, and that,

too, in company with those who now sit beside us, as if to mock the

lapse of intervening years. These meetings seem to steal a pinion from

time's wing, and hard indeed were it if the sensations they called forth

were not pleasurable ones; for oh! how rudely and frequently, on the

other hand, are we reminded of the changes which the progress of years

brings with it: the bereavement of loved ones--the prostration of what

we revered--our buoyant elasticity of body and mind departed--all things

changing and changed.

We sigh, and gaze back. How few are the scenes, which memory's

kaleidoscope presents in their pristine bright colours, of that

journey, performed so slowly, as it once appeared, but which, to the

eye of retrospection, seems to have hurried to its end with the rapid

wings of the wind!

Imbued with an association, what a trivial circumstance will please! As

the brothers touched each other's glass; and drank to mutual happiness,

what grateful recollections were called up by that act! How did these

manifest their power, as they lighted up the wan features of George

Delmé. Acmé looked on smilingly; her hair flowing about her neck--her

dark eyes flashing with unusual brilliancy. Delmé felt it would be

unsocial were he alone to look grave; and although many foreboding

thoughts crowded on him, _he_ too seemed to be happy. It was twilight

when the dinner was over. The windows were open, and the party placed

themselves near the jalousies. They here commanded a view of the public

gardens, where groups of Maltese were enjoying the coolness of the hour,

and the fragrance of the flowers. The walk had a roof of lattice work

supported by wooden pillars; round which, an image of woman's love, the

honeysuckle clingingly twined, diffusing sweets.

Immediately before them, the principal outlet of the town presented

itself. Laughing parties of English sailors were passing, mounted on

steeds of every size, which they were urging forward, in spite of the

piteous remonstrances of the menials of their owners. The latter, for

the most part, held by the tails of their animals, and uttered a

jargon composed of English, Italian, and Maltese. The only words

however, that met the unregarding ears of the sailors, were some such

exclamations as these.

"Not you go so fast, Signore; he good horse, but much tire."

The riders sat in their saddles swinging from side to side, evidently

thinking their tenure more precarious than that on the giddy mast; and

wholly unmindful of the expressive gestures, and mournful ejaculations

of the bare-legged pursuers. At another time, their antics and

buffoonery, as they made unmerciful use of the short sticks with which

they were armed, would have provoked a smile. _Now_ our party gazed on

these things as they move the wise. They felt calm and happy; and

deceptive hope whispered they might yet remain so. Acmé took up her

guitar, and throwing her fingers over it, as she gave a soft prelude,

warbled that sweet although common song, "Buona notte, amato bene." She

sung with great feeling, and feeling is the soul of music.

How plaintively! how tenderly did her lips breathe the

"ricordati! ricordati di me!"

There was something extremely witching in her precocious charms. She

resembled some beauteous bud, just ready to burst into light and bloom.

It is not yet the rose,--but a moment more may make it such. Her

beauties were thus ripe for maturity. It seemed as if the sunshine of

love were already upon them--they were basking in its rays. A brief

space--and the girl shall no longer be such. What was promise shall be

beauty. She shall meet the charmed eye a woman; rich in grace and

loveliness. As Delmé marked her sympathising glance at George--her

beaming features--her innocent simplicity;--as he thought of all she had

lost, all she had suffered for his brother's sake,--as he thought of the

scorn of the many--the pity of the few--the unwearied watching--the

sleepless nights--the day of sorrow passed by the bed of sickness--all

so cheerfully encountered for _him_--he could not reproach her. No! he

took her hand, and the brothers whispered consolation to her, and to

each other.

Late that evening, they were joined by Colonel Vavasour, and Mr. Graham.

George's spirits rose hourly. Never had his Colonel appeared to such

advantage--Acmé so lovely--or Henry so kind--as they did to George Delmé

that night.

It was with a sigh at the past pleasures that George retired to

his chamber.

Chapter XII.

The Mess.

"Red coats and redder faces."

The following day, a room having been given up to Delmé, he discharged

his bill at Beverley's; and moved to Floriana. He again accompanied

George in his drive; and they had on this occasion, the advantage of

Acmé's society, who amused them with her artless description of the

manners of the lower orders of Maltese.

Pursuant to his promise, at the bugle's signal Delmé entered the mess

room; and the Colonel immediately introduced him to the assembled

officers. To his disappointment, for he felt curious to see one, who had

exercised such an influence over his brother, Delancey was not amongst

them. Sir Henry was much pleased with the feeling that appeared to

exist, between Colonel Vavasour and his corps of officers:--respect on

one side--and the utmost confidence on both. We think it is the talented

author of Pelham, who describes a mess table as comprising "cold dishes

and hot wines, where the conversation is of Johnson of ours and Thomson

of jours."

This, though severe, is near the truth; and if, to this description, be

added _lots_ of plate of that pattern called the Queen's--ungainly

servants in stiff mess liveries--and a perpetual recurrence to Mr. Vice;

we have certainly caught the most glaring features of a commonplace

regimental dinner. Vavasour was well aware of this, and had directed

unremitting attention, to give a tone to the conversation at the mess

table, more nearly approaching to that of private life; one which should

embrace topics of general interest, and convey some general information.

Even in _his_ well ordered regiment, there were some, whose nature would

have led them, to confine their attention to thoughts of the daily

military routine. This inclination was repressed by the example of

their Colonel; and these, if not debaters, were at least patient

listeners, as the conversation dealt of matters, to them uncongenial,

and the value of the discussion of which they could not themselves

perceive. Not that military subjects were interdicted; the contrary was

the case. But these subjects took a somewhat loftier tone, than the

contemplation of an exchange of orderly duty, or an overslaugh of guard.

When dinner was announced, Colonel Vavasour placed his hand on the

shoulder of a boy near him.

"Come, Cholmondeley!" said he, "sit near me, and give me an account of

your match. You must not fail to write your Yorkshire friends every

particular. Major Clifford, will you sit on the other side of Sir Henry?

You are both Peninsula men, and will find, I doubt not, that you have

many friends in common.

"There is something," said he to Delmé, as he took his seat,

"revivifying to an old soldier, in noting the exhilaration of spirit of

these boys. It reminds us of the zeal with which _we_ too buckled on

our coat of red. It is a great misfortune these youngsters labour under,

that they have no outlet for their ambition, no scene on which they can

display their talents. Never were youthful aspirants for service more

worthy, or more zealous, and yet it is probable their country will not

need them, until they arrive at an age, when neither body nor mind are

attuned for _commencing_ a life of hardship, however well adapted to

_continue_ in it. _We_ have had the advantage there--_we_ trod the

soldier's proudest stage when our hopes and buoyancy of heart were at

their highest; and for myself, I am satisfied that much of my present

happiness, arises from the very different life of my earlier years."

The conversation took a military turn; and Delmé could not help

observing the attention, with which the younger members of the corps

heard the anecdotes, related by those who had been actually engaged.

Occasionally, the superior reading of the juniors would peep out, and

give them the advantage of knowledge, even with regard to

circumstances, over those who had been personal actors in the affairs

they spoke of. The most zealous of these detail narrators, were the

quarter-master of the regiment, and Delmé's right-hand neighbour, Major

Clifford. The former owed his appointment to his gallantry, in saving

the colours of his regiment, when the ensign who bore them was killed,

and the enemy's cavalry were making a sudden charge, before the

regiment could form its square.

His was a bluff purple face, denoting the bon vivant. Indeed, it was

with uncommon celerity, that his previous reputation of being the best

maker of rum punch in the serjeants' mess, had changed into his present

one of being the first concoctor of sangaree at the officers'.

Major Clifford merits more especial notice. He was a man hardly

appreciated in his own profession; out of it, he was misrepresented, and

voted a bore. He had spent all the years of his life, since the down

mantled his upper lip, in the service of his country; and for _its_

good, as he conceived it, he had sacrificed all his little fortune. It

is true his liberality had not had a very comprehensive range: he had

sunk his money in the improvement of the personal appearance of his

company--in purchasing pompons--or new feathers--or whistles, when he

was a voltigeur--in establishing his serjeants' mess on a more

respectable footing--in giving his poor comrade a better coffin, or a

richer pall:--these had been his foibles; and in indulging them, he had

expended the wealth, that might have purchased him on to rank and

honours. His eagle glance, his aquiline nose, and noble person, showed

what he must have been in youth. His hair was now silvered, but his coat

was as glossy as formerly--his zeal was unabated--his pride in his

profession the same--and what he could spare, still went, to adorn the

persons of the soldiers he still loved. He remained a captain, although

his long standing in the army had brought him in for the last brevet. It

is true every one had a word for poor Clifford. "Such a fine fellow!

what a shame!" But _this_ did not help him on. At the Horse Guards, too,

his services were freely acknowledged. The Military Secretary had always

a smile for him at his levee, and an assurance that "he had his eye on

him" The Commander in Chief, too, the last time he had inspected the

regiment, attracted by his Waterloo badge, and Portuguese cross, had

stopped as he passed in front of the ranks, and conversed with him most

affably, for nearly two minutes and a half; as his colour serjeant with

some degree of pride used to tell the story. But yet, somehow or other,

although Major Clifford was an universal favourite, they always forgot

to reward him. A man of the world, would have deemed the Major's ideas

to be rather contracted; and to confess the truth, there were two

halcyon periods of his life, to which he was fond of recurring. The one

was, when he commanded a light company, attached to General Crauford's

light brigade;--the other, when he had the temporary command of the

regimental depot, and at his own expense, had dressed out its little

band, as it had never been dressed out before.

Do you sneer at the old soldier, courtly reader?

There breathes not a man who dare arraign that man's courage;--there is

not one who knows him, who would not cheerfully stake his life as a gage

for his stainless honour.

The soup and fish had been removed, when Delmé observed a young officer

glide in, with that inexpressible air of fashion, which appears to shun

notice, whilst it attracts it. His arm was in a sling, and his

attenuated face seemed to bespeak ill health. Sir Henry addressed

Colonel Vavasour, and begged to know if the person who had just entered

the room was Delancey. He was answered in the affirmative; and he again

turned to scrutinise his features. These rivetted attention; and were

such as could not be seen once, without being gazed at again. His eyes

were dark and large, and rested for minutes on one object, with an

almost mournful expression; nor was it until they turned from its

contemplation, that the discriminating observer might read in their

momentary flash, that their possessor had passions deep and

uncontrollable. His dark hair hung in profusion over his forehead, which

it almost hid; though from the slight separation of a curl, the form of

brow became visible; which was remarkable for its projection, and for

its pallid hue, which offered a strong contrast to the swart and

sunburnt face.

"Are you aware of his history?" said the Colonel.

"Not in the slightest," replied Delmé. "I felt curious to see him, on

account of the way in which he has been mixed up with George's affair;

and think his features extraordinary--very extraordinary ones."

"He is son," said Vavasour, "to the once celebrated Lady Harriet D----,

who made a marriage so disgracefully low. He is the only child by that

union. His parents lived for many years on the continent, in obscurity,

and under an assumed name. They are both dead. It is possible Delancey

may play a lofty role in the world, as he has only a stripling between

him and the earldom of D----, which descends in the female line. I am

sure he will not be a common character; but I have great fears about

him. In the regiment he is considered proud and unsocial; and indeed it

was your brother's friendship that appeared to retain him in our circle.

He has great talents, and some good qualities; but from his uncommon

impetuosity of temper, and his impatience of being thwarted, I should be

inclined to predict, that the first check he receives in life, will

either make him a misanthrope, or a pest to society."

At a later period of his life, Delmé again encountered Delancey; and

this prophecy of the Colonel's was vividly recalled.

In the ensuing chapter, we purpose giving Oliver Delancey's history, as

a not uninstructive episode; although we are aware that episodes are

impatiently tolerated, and it is in nowise allied to the purpose of our

story. But before doing so, we must detail a conversation which occurred

between Delancey and Delmé, at the table of the ---- mess. The latter was

scanning the features of the former, when their eyes met. A conviction

seemed to flash on Delancey, that Delmé was George's brother; for the

blood rushed to his cheek--his colour went and came--and as he turned

away his head, he made a half involuntary bow. Delmé was struck with his

manner, and apparent emotion; and in returning the salute, ventured "to

hope he was somewhat recovered."

When Major Clifford left the table, Delancey took his vacant seat.

"Sir Henry Delmé," said he, "I have before this wished to see you, to

implore the forgiveness of your family for the misery I have

occasioned. How often have I cursed my folly! I acted on an impulse,

which at the time I could not withstand. I had never serious views

with regard to Acmé Frascati. Indeed, I may here tell you,--to no

other man have I ever named it,--that I have ties in my own country

far dearer, and more imperatively binding. I knew I had erred. The

laws of society could alone have made me meet George Belmé as a foe;

but even then--on the ground--God and my second know that my weapon

was never directed at my friend. I am an unsocial being, Sir Henry,

and, from my habits, not likely to be popular. Your brother knew this,

and saved me from petty contentions and invidious calumnies. He was

the best and only friend I possessed. I purpose soon to leave Malta

and the army. The former is become painful to me,--for the latter I

have a distaste, A feeling of delicacy to Acmé Frascati would prevent

my seeing your brother, even if Mr. Graham had not forbidden the

interview, as likely to harass his mind. Will you, then, assure him of

my unabated attachment, and tell me that _you_ forgive me for the

part I have taken in this unhappy affair."

Delmé was much moved as he assured him he would do all he wished; that

he could see little to blame him for--that George's excited feelings had

brought on the present crisis, and that _he_ had amply atoned for any

share he might have had in the transaction. Delancey pressed his hand

gratefully.

It was at a somewhat late hour that Delmé joined Acmé and his brother;

declining the hearty invitation of the Quartermaster to come down to

his quarters.

"He could give him a devilled turkey and a capital cigar."

Chapter XIII.

Oliver Delancey.

"Then the few, whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness,

Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt, or ocean of excess;

The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain

The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never reach again."

We have said that Delmé saw Delancey once more. It was at a later period

of our story, when business had taken Sir Henry to Bath. He had been

dining with Mr. Belliston Græme, who possessed a villa in the

neighbourhood. Tempted by the beauty of the night, he dismissed his

carriage, and, turning from the high road, took a by-path which led to

the city. The air was serene and mild. The moon-light was sufficiently

clear to chase away night's dank vapours. The ground had imperceptibly

risen, until having ascended a grassy eminence, over which the path

stretched, the well-lighted city burst upon the eye.

Immediately in front of the view, a principal street presented itself,

the lamps on either side stretching in regular succession, until they

gradually narrowed and joined in the perspective. Nearer to the

spectator, the flickering lights of the detached villas, and the moving

ones of the carriages in the public road, relieved the stillness of the

scene. Delmé paused to regard it, with that subdued feeling with which

men, arrived at a certain period of life, scan the aspect of nature. The

moon at the moment was enveloped in light clouds. As it broke through

them, its shimmering light revealed a face and form that Delmé at once

recognised as Delancey's. It was with a consciousness of pain he did so,

for it brought before him recollections of scenes, whose impressions had

still power to subdue him. All emotions, however, soon became absorbed

in that of curiosity, as he noted the still figure and agitated

features before him. A block of granite lay near the path. Delancey

leant back over it--his right hand nearly touched the ground--his hat

lay beside him. The dark hair, wet with the dews of night, was blown

back by the breeze. His high forehead was fully shewn. His vest and

shirt were open, as he gazed with an air of fixedness on the city, and

conversed to himself. His teeth were firmly clenched, and it seemed that

the lips moved not, but the words were fearfully distinct. We often hear

of these soliloquies,--they afford scope to the dramatist, food for the

poet, a chapter for the narrator of fiction,--but we rarely witness

them. When we do, they are eminently calculated to thrill and alarm. It

was evident that Delancey saw him not; but had it been otherwise,

Delmé's interest was so aroused that he could not have left the spot.

"Hail! sympathising night!" thus spoke the young man, "the calm of thy

silent hour seems in unison with my lone heart--thy dewy breeze imparts

a freshness to this languid and darkened spirit, Sweet night! how I

love thee! And moon, too! fair moon! how abruptly!--how chastely!--how

gloriously!--dost thou break through the variegated and fleecy clouds,

which would impede thy progress, and deny me to gaze on thy white orb

unshrouded. And thou, too! radiant star of eve! oh that woman's love but

resembled thee! that it were gentle, constant, and pure as thy holy

gleam. That _that_ should dazzle to bring in its train--oh God! what

misery." He raised his hand to his brow, as if a poignant thought had

stung him.

Sir Henry Delmé stole away, and ruminated long that night, on the

distress that could thus convulse those fine features. Afterwards, when

Delancey's name was no longer the humble one he had first known it, but

became bruited in loftier circles,--for Vavasour's prediction became

realised,--Delmé heard it whispered, that his affections had suffered

an early blight, from the infidelity of one to whom he had been

affianced. We may relate the circumstances as they occurred. Blanche

Allen was the daughter of a country gentleman of some wealth, whose

estate joined that of the Earl of D----'s, where Delancey's boyhood

had been spent. For years Blanche and Oliver considered themselves as

more than friends. Each selected the other as the companion in the

solitary walk, or partner in the joyous dance. Not a country girl but

had her significant smile, as young Delancey's horse's head was turned

towards Hatton Grange.

Delancey joined the army at an early age. Blanche was some eighteen

months his junior. They parted with tears, and thus they continued to do

for the two following years, during which Oliver frequently got leave to

run down to his uncle's. This was while he was serving with part of the

regiment at home. When it came to his turn to embark for foreign

service, it was natural from this circumstance, as well as from their

riper age, that their farewell should be of a more solemn nature. They

bade adieu by the side of the streamlet that divided the two properties.

It was where this made a small fall, down which it gushed in crystal

brightness, and then meandered with gentle murmur through a succession

of rich meadows. A narrow bridge was below the fall, while beside it, a

rustic seat had been placed, on which the sobbing Blanche sat, with her

lover's arm round her waist. For the first time he had talked seriously

of their attachment, and it was with youthful earnestness, that they

mutually plighted their troth. Nor did Blanche hesitate, though blushing

deeply as she did so, to place in his hand a trivial gage d'amour, and

that which has so long solaced absent lovers, a lock of her sunny hair.

Blanche was very beautiful, but she had a character common to many

English women--more so, we think, than to foreign ones.

As a girl, Blanche was nature's self, warm, gentle, confiding,--as an

unmarried woman, she was a heartless coquette,--as a matron, an

exemplary mother and an affectionate wife. During the time Delancey was

abroad, he heard of Blanche but seldom, for the lovers were not of that

age in which a correspondence would be tolerated by Blanche's family.

She once managed to send him, by the hands of a young cousin, some

trifling present, with a few lines accompanying it, informing him that

she had not forgotten him. His uncle--his only correspondent in

England--was not exactly the person to make a confidant of; but he

would, in an occasional postscript, let him know that he had seen

Blanche Allen lately--that "she was very gay, prettier than ever, and

always blushing when spoken to of a certain person."

To do Oliver justice, he at all times thought of Blanche. We have seen

him, with regard to Acme, apparently disregarding her, but in that

affair he had been actuated by a mere spirit of adventure. His heart was

but slightly enlisted, and his feelings partook of any thing but those

of a serious attachment.

Oliver Delancey left Malta soon after his conversation with

Delmé. Previous to doing so, he had forwarded his resignation to

Colonel Vavasour.

He passed some time in Italy, and, as the season arrived, found himself

a denizen in that gayest of cities, Vienna. Pleasure is truly there

enshrouded in her liveliest robes. As regards Delancey, not in vain was

she thus clothed. Just relieved from the dull monotony of a military

life--dull as it ever must be without war's excitement, and peculiarly

distasteful to one constituted like Delancey, who refused to make

allowance for the commonplace uncongenial spirits with whom he found

himself obliged to herd--he was quite prepared to embrace with avidity

any life that promised an agreeable change. Austria's capital holds out

many inducements to dissipation, and to none are these more freely

tendered, than to young and handsome Englishmen. The women, over the

dangerous sentimentality of their nation, throw such an air of ease and

frankness, that their victims resemble the finny tribe in the famous

tunny fishery. While they conceive the whole ocean is at their

command--disport here and there in imagined freedom--they are already

encased by the insidious nets; the harpoon is already pointed, which

shall surely pierce them. Delancey plunged headlong into pleasure's

vortex--touched each link between gaiety and crime. He wandered from the

paths of virtue from the infatuation of folly, and continued to err from

the fascinations of sin. He was suddenly recalled to himself, by one of

those catastrophes often sent by Providence, to awaken us from

intoxicating dreams. His companion, with whom he had resided during his

stay in Vienna, lost his all at a gaming table. Although he had not the

firmness of mind to face his misfortunes, yet had he the rashness to

meet his God unbidden. Sobered and appalled, Oliver left Germany for

England. There was a thought, which even in the height of his follies

obtruded, and which now came on him with a force that surprised himself.

That thought was of Blanche Allen. He turned from the image of his

expiring friend to dwell unsated on hers. A new vista of life seemed to

open--thoughts which had long slept came thronging on his mind--he was

once more the love-sick boy. The more, too, he brooded over his late

unworthiness, the more did his imagination ennoble the one he loved. He

now looked to the moment of meeting her, as that whence he would date

his moral regeneration. "Thank God!" thought he, "a sure haven is yet

mine. There will I--my feelings steadied, my affections

concentrated--enjoy a purified and unruffled peace. What a consolation

to be loved by one so good and gentle!"

He hurried towards England, travelled day and night, and only wondered

that he could have rested any where, while he had the power of flying to

her he had loved from childhood. Occasionally a feeling of apprehension

would cross him. It was many months since he had heard of her--she might

be ill. His love was of that confiding nature, that he could not

conceive her changed. As he came near his home, happier thoughts

succeeded. In fancy, he again saw her enjoying the innocent pleasures in

which he had been her constant companion,--health on her

cheek--affection in her glance. He had to pass that well known lodge.

His voice shook, as he told the driver to stop at its gate. As he drove

through the avenue of elms, he threw himself back in the carriage, and

every limb quivered from his agitation. He could hardly make himself

understood to the domestic--he waited not an answer to his enquiry--but

bounded up the stairs, and with faltering step entered the room.

Blanche was there, and not alone but oh! how passing fair! Even Delancey

had not dared to think, that the beauty of the girl could have been so

eclipsed by the ripe graces of the woman. She recognised him, and rose

to meet him with a burst of unfeigned surprise. She held out her hand

with an air of winning frankness; and yet for an instant,--and his hand

as it pressed hers, trembled with that thought,--he deemed there was a

hesitating blush on her cheek, which should not have been there. But it

passed away, and radiant with smiles, she turned to the one beside her.

"My dear," said she, as she gave him a confiding look, which haunts

Delancey yet, "this is a great friend of Papa's, and an old playmate of

mine--Mr. Delancey;" and as the stranger stepped forward to shake his

hand, Blanche looked at her old lover, with a glance that seemed to say,

"How foolish were we, to deem we were ever more than friends." Oliver

Delancey turned deadly pale; but pride bade him scorn her, and his hand

shook not, as it touched that of him, who had robbed him of a treasure,

he would have died to have called his.

"And you have been to D---- Castle, I suppose, and found your uncle had

left it for Bath. Indeed, _we_ only arrived the day before yesterday;

but Papa wrote us, saying he had got one of his attacks of rheumatism,

from the late fishing, and begged us to take this on our way to

Habberton, Did you see my marriage in the papers, or did your uncle

write you, Oliver?"

Delancey's lips quivered, but his countenance did not change, as he

looked her in the face, and told her he had not known it until now.

And now her husband spoke: "It was very late, and he must want

refreshment; and Mr. Allen intended to be wheeled to the dinner table;

and they could so easily send up to D---- Castle to tell them to get a

bed aired; and he could dismiss the chaise now, and their carriage could

take him there at night."

And Delancey _did_ stay, although unable to analyse the feeling that

made him do so.

And during dinner, _he_ was the life of that little party. He spoke of

foreign lands--related strange incidents of travel--dwelt with animation

on his schoolboy exploits. The old man was delighted--the husband forgot

his wife;--and she, the false one, sat silent, and for the moment

disregarded. She gazed and gazed again on that familiar face--drank in

the tones of that accustomed voice--and the chill of compunction crept

over her frame.

But Delancey's brain was on fire; and in the solitude of his

chamber--no! he was not calm there. He paced hurriedly across the oaken

floor; and he opened wide his window, and looked out on the bright

stars, spangling heaven's blue vault; and then beneath him, where the

cypress trees bowed their heads to the wind, and the moon's light fell

on the marble statues on the terrace.

And he turned to his bed-side, and hid his tearless face in his hands;

and in the fulness of his despair, he knelt and prayed, that though he

had long neglected his God, his God would not now forsake him. And, as

if to mock his sufferings, sleep came; but it was short, very short; and

a weight, a leaden weight, oppressed his eye-lids even in slumber. And

he gave one start, and awoke a prey to mental agony. His despair flashed

on him--he sprung up wildly in his bed. "Liar! liar!" said he, as with

clenched teeth, and hand upraised, he recalled that fond look given to

another. Drops of sweat started to his brow--his pulse beat quick and

audibly--quicker--quicker yet. A feeling of suffocation came over

him--and God forgive him! Oliver Delancey deemed that hour his last. He

staggered blindly to the bell, and with fearful energy pulled its cord,

till it fell clattering on the marble hearth stone. The domestics found

him speechless and insensible on the floor--the blood oozing from his

mouth and ears.

It may be said that this picture is overcharged; that no vitiated mind

could have thus felt. But it is not so. In life's spring we all feel

acutely: and to the effects of disappointed love, and wounded pride,

there are few limits.

Woman! dearest woman! born to alleviate our sorrow, and soothe our

anguish! who canst bid feeling's tear trickle down the obdurate cheek,

or mould the iron heart, till it be pliable as a child's--why stain thy

gentle dominion by inconstancy? why dismiss the first form that haunted

thy maiden pillow, until--or that vision is a dear reality beside

thee--or thou liest pale and hushed, on thy last couch of repose?

And then--shall not thy virgin spirit hail him? Why first fetter us,

slaves to virtue and to thee; _then_ become the malevolent Typhoon, on

whose wings our good genius flies for ever? In this--far worse than the

iconoclasts of yore art thou! _They_ but disfigured images of man's rude

fashioning: whilst _thou_ wouldst injure the _once_ loved form of God's

high creation,--wouldst entail on the body a premature decay--and on

that which dieth not, an irradicable blight.

"Then the mortal coldness of the soul, like death itself comes down;

It cannot feel for others woes--it dares not dream its own.

That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears;

And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears."

On such a character as was Delancey's, the blow did indeed fall heavy.

Not that his paroxysms of grief were more lasting, or his pangs more

acute, than is usual in similar cases; but to his moral worth it was

death. An infliction of this nature, falling on a comparatively virtuous

man, is productive of few evil consequences. It may give a holier turn

to his thoughts--wean him from sublunary vanities--and purify his

nature. On an utterly depraved man, its effects may be fleeting also;

for few can _here_ expect a moral regeneration. But falling on Delancey,

it was not thus. The slender thread that bound him to virtue, was snapt

asunder; the germ whence the good of his nature might have sprung,

destroyed for ever. Such a man could not love purely again. To expect

him to wander to another font, and imbibe from as clear a stream, would

be madness. The love of a man of the world, let it be the first and

best, is gross and earthly enough; but let him be betrayed in that

love--let him see the staff on which he confidingly leant, break from

under him--and he becomes from henceforth the deceiver--but never the

deceived. When Delmé saw him, Delancey was writhing under his

affliction. When he again entered the world, and it was soon, he

regarded it as a wide mart, where he might gratify his appetites, and

unrestrainedly indulge his evil propensities. He believed not that

virtue and true nobility were there; could he but find them. He looked

at the blow his happiness had sustained, and thought it afforded a fair

sample of human nature. Oliver Delancey became a selfish and a

profligate man.

He was to be pitied; and from his soul did Delmé pity him. He had been

one of promise and of talent; but _now_ his lot is cast on the die of

apathy;--and it is to be feared--without a miracle intervene--and

should his life be spared--that when the wavy locks of youth are

changed to the silver hairs of age--that he will then be that thing of

all others to be scoffed at--the hoary sensualist. Let us hope not! Let

us hope that she who hath brought him to this, may rest her head on the

bosom of her right lord, and forget the one, whose hand used to be

locked in her own, for hours--hours which flew quick as summer's

evening shadows! Let us trust that remorse may be absent from her;

that she may never know that worst of reflections--the having injured

one who had loved her, irremediably; that she may gaze on her

fair-haired children, and her cheek blanch not as she recals another

form than the father's; that her life may be irreproachable, her end

calm and dignified; that dutiful children may attend the inanimate clay

to its resting place; that filial tears may bedew her grave; and, when

the immortal stands appalled before its Judge, that the destruction of

that soul may not be laid to her charge.

Chapter XIV.

The Spitfire.

"And I have loved thee! Ocean! and my joy

Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be

Borne like thy bubbles onward."

* * * * *

"Pull away! yo ho! boys!"

Delmé continued to reside with his brother, whose health seemed to amend

daily. George generally managed to accompany him in his sight-seeing,

from which Henry derived great gratification.

He mused over the antique tombs of some of the departed knights; and

admired the rich mosaics in that splendid church, dedicated to Saint

John; than which the traveller may voyage long, and meet nothing

worthier his notice. He visited the ancient armoury--dined at the

palace, and at the different messes--inspected the laborious

travailings of the silkworm at the boschetto--conversed with the

original of Byron's Leila--a sweet creature she is!--looked with

wondering eye on the ostrich of Fort Manuel--and heard the then

commandant's wife relate her tale thereanent. He went to Gozzo too--shot

rabbits--and crossed in a basket to the fungus rock. He saw a festa in

the town, and a festa in the country--rode to St. Antonio, and St.

Paul's Bay--and was told he had seen the lions. Nor must we pass over

that most interesting of spectacles; viz., some figures enveloped in

monkish cowl, and placed in convenient niches; but beneath the close

hood, the blood mounts not with devotion's glow, nor do eyes glare from

sockets shrunk by abstinence. Skeletons alone are there!

These, curious reader, are the bodies of saintly Capuchins; thus

exhibited--dried and baked--to excite beholders to a life of virtue!

One morning, George said he felt rather unwell, and would stay at home.

An oar happened to be wanted in the regimental gig, which Sir Henry

offered to take. He was soon accoutred in the dress of an absent

member, and in a short time was discharging the duties of his office to

the satisfaction of all; for he knew every secret of _feathering,_ and

had not _caught a crab_ for years.

It was a beautifully calm day--not a speck in the azure heaven. It was

hot too--but for this they cared not. They had porter; and on such

occasions, what better beverage would you ask? Swiftly and gaily did the

slim bark cleave through the glassy sea. Its hue was a dark crimson,

with one black stripe--its nom de guerre, the Spitfire.

As the ------ regiment particularly prided itself on its aquatic costume,

we shall describe it. Small chased pearl buttons on the blue jacket and

white shirt; a black band round the neck, to match the one on the

narrow-brimmed thick straw hat; white trousers; couleur de rose silk

collar, fastened to the throat by a golden clasp; and stockings of the

same colour. How joyously did the gig hold her course! What a thrilling

sensation expanded the soul, as the steersman, a handsome little fellow

with large black whiskers, gave the encouraging word, "Stroke! my good

ones!" Then were exerted all the energies of the body--then was

developed each straining muscle--then were the arms thrown back in

sympathy, to give a long pull, and a strong pull--till the bark reeled

beneath them, and shot through the wave.

The tall ship--the slender mole--the busy deck--the porticoed

palace--the strong fort--the bristling battery--the astonished fisher's

bark as it sluggishly crept on--were all cheeringly swept by, as the

bending oars in perfect unison, kissed the erst slumbering water. What

sensation can be more glorious? The only thing to compete with it, is

the being in a crack coach on the western road; the opposition slightly

in front--a knowing whip driving--when the horses are at their utmost

speed--the traces tight as traces can be--the ladies inside pale and

screaming--one little child cramming out her head, her mouth stuffed

with Banbury cakes, adding her shrill affetuoso--whilst the odd-looking

man in the white hat, seated behind, is blue from terror, and with

chattering teeth, mumbles undistinguishable sentences of furious

driving and prosecution. Surely such moments half redeem our miseries!

What bitter thought can travel twelve miles an hour?

And ever and anon would the Spitfire dart into some little creek, and

the thirsty rowers would rest on their oars, whose light drip fell on

purple ocean, tinged by a purple sky. And now would the jovial steersman

introduce the accommodating corkscrew, first into one bottle and then

into another, as these were successively emptied, and thrown overboard,

to give the finny philosophers somewhat to speculate on.

Delmé landed weary; but it was a beneficial weariness. He felt he had

taken manly exercise, and that it would do him good. He was walking

towards the barrack, with his jacket slung over his shoulder, when he

was met by George's servant.

"Oh, Sir!" said the man, "I am so glad you are come. The Signora is

terribly afraid for my young master. I fear, Sir, he is in one of

his fits."

Delmé hurried forward, and entered his brother's room. George held a

riding whip in his hand. He had thrown off his cravat--his throat was

bare--his eyes glanced wildly.

"And who are you, Sir?" said he, as Henry entered.

"What! not know me, dearest George?" replied his brother, in agony.

"I do not understand your insolence, Sir; but if you are a dun, go to my

servant. Thompson," continued he, "give me my spurs! I shall ride."

"Ride!" said Delmé.

Thompson made him a quiet sign. "I am very sorry, Sir," said he, "but

the Arab is quite lame, and is not fit for the saddle."

"Give me a glass of sangaree then, you rascal! Port--do you hear?"

The glass was brought him. He drained its contents at a draught.

"Now, kick that scoundrel out of the room, Thompson, and let me sleep."

He threw himself listlessly on the sofa. Acmé was weeping bitterly,

but he seemed not to notice her. It was late in the day. The surgeon

had been sent for. He now arrived, and stated that nothing could be

done; but recommended his being watched closely, and the removing

all dangerous weapons. He begged Henry, however, to indulge him in

all his caprices, in order that he might the better observe the

state of his mind.

While George slept, Delmé entered another room, and ordering the servant

to inform him when he awoke, he sat down to dinner alone and dispirited;

for Acmé refused to leave George. It was indeed a sad, and to Sir Henry

Delmé an unforeseen shock.

In a couple of hours, Thompson came with a message from Acmé. "Master

is awake, Sir--knows the Signora--and seems much better. He has

desired me to brush his cloak, as he intends going out. Shall I do so,

Sir, or not?"

"Do so!" said Delmé, "but fail not to inform me when he is about to go;

and be yourself in readiness. We will watch him."

Chapter XV.

The Charnel House.

"And when at length the mind shall be all free,

From what it hates in this degraded form,

Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be

Existent happier in the fly or worm;

When elements to elements conform,

And dust is as it should be."

The last grey tinge of twilight, was fast giving place to the sombre

hues of night, as a figure, enveloped in a military cloak, issued from

the barrack at Floriana.

Henry at once recognised George; and only delaying till a short distance

had intervened between his brother and himself, Delmé and Thompson

followed his footsteps.

George Delmé walked swiftly, as if intent on some deep design. The long

shadow thrown out by his figure, enabled his pursuers to distinguish him

very clearly. He did not turn his head, but, with hurried step, strode

the species of common which divides Floriana from La Valette. Crossing

the drawbridge, and passing through the porch which guards the entrance

to the town, he turned down an obscure street, and, folding his cloak

closer around him, rapidly--yet with an appearance of caution--continued

his route, diving from one street to another, till he entered a small

court-yard, in which stood an isolated gloomy-looking house. No light

appeared in the windows, and its exterior bespoke it uninhabited. Henry

and the domestic paused, expecting George either to knock or return to

the street. He walked on, however, and, turning to one side of the

porch, descended a flight of stone steps, and entered the lower part of

the house.

"Perhaps we had better not both follow him," said the servant.

"No, Thompson! do you remain here, only taking care that your master

does not pass you: and I think you may as well go round the house, and

see if there is any other way of leaving it."

Sir Henry descended the steps in silence. Arrived at the foot of the

descent, a narrow passage, diverging to the left, presented itself.

Beyond appeared a distant glimmering of light. Delmé groped along the

passage, using the precaution to crouch as low as possible, until he

came before a large comfortless room in the centre of which, was placed

a brass lamp, whose light was what he had discerned at the extremity of

the passage. He could distinctly observe the furniture and inmates of

the room. Of the former, the only articles were a table--on which were

placed the remains of a homely meal--an iron bedstead, and a barrel,

turned upside down, which served as a substitute for a chair. The

bedstead had no curtains, but in lieu of them, there were hangings

around it, which struck Delmé as resembling mourning habiliments.

Whilst the light operated thus favourably, in enabling Sir Henry to

note the interior of the apartment, it was hardly possible, from its

situation, that he himself could be observed. Its rays did not reach

the passage; and he was also shrouded in some degree by a door, which

was off its hinges, and which was placed against the wall. Fastened to

the side of the room were two deep shelves--the lower one containing

some bottles and plates; the upper, a number of human sculls. In a

corner were some more of these, intermingled in a careless heap, with a

few bleached bones.

George Delmé was standing opposite the door, conversing earnestly with a

Maltese, evidently of the lowest caste. The latter was seated on the

barrel we have mentioned, and was listening with apparently a mixture of

surprise and exultation to what George was saying. George's voice sunk

to an inaudible whisper, as the conversation continued, and he was

evidently trying to remove some scruples, which this man either affected

to feel, or really felt. The man's answers were given in a gruff and

loud tone of voice, but from the Maltese dialect of his Italian, Sir

Henry could not understand what was said. His countenance was very

peculiar. It was of that derisive character rarely met with in one of

his class of life, except when called forth by peculiar habits, or

extraordinary circumstances. His eyes were very small, but bright and

deeply set. His lips wore a constant sarcastic smile, which gave him the

air of a bold but cunning man. His throat and bosom were bare, and of a

deep copper colour; and his muscular chest was covered with short curly

hair. The conversation on George's part became more animated, and he at

length made use of what seemed an unanswerable argument. Taking out a

beaded purse, which Sir Henry knew well--it had been Emily's last

present to George--he emptied the contents into the bronzed hand of his

companion, who grasped the money with avidity. The Maltese _now_

appeared to acquiesce in all George's wishes; and rising, went towards

the bed, and selected some of the articles of wearing apparel Delmé had

already noticed. He addressed some words to George, who sat on the

bedside quiescently, while the man went to the table, and took up a

knife that was upon it. For a moment, Delmé felt alarm lest his design

might be a murderous one; but it was not so. He laughed savagely, as he

made use of the knife, to cut off the luxuriant chestnut ringlets, which

shaded George's eyes and forehead. He then applied to the face some

darkening liquid, and commenced choosing a sable dress. George threw off

his cloak, and was attired by the Maltese, in a long black cotton robe

of the coarsest material, which, descending to the feet, came in a hood

over his face, which it almost entirely concealed. During the whole of

this scene, George Delmé's features wore an air of dogged apathy, which

alarmed his brother, even more than his agitation in the earlier part of

the day. After his being metamorphosed in the way we have described, it

would have been next to an impossibility to have recognised him. His

companion put on a dress of the same nature, and Sir Henry was preparing

to make his retreat, presuming that they would now leave the building,

when he was induced to stay for the purpose of remarking the conduct of

the Maltese. He took up a scull, and placing his finger through an

eyeless hole, whence _once_ love beamed or hate flashed, he made some

savage comment, which he accompanied by a long and malignant laugh. This

would at another time have shocked Sir Henry, but there was another

laugh, wilder and more discordant, that curdled the blood in Delmé's

veins. It proceeded from his brother, the gay--the happy George Delmé;

and as it re-echoed through the gloomy passage, it seemed that of a

remorseless demon, gloating on the misfortunes of the human race. Delmé

turned away in agony, and, unperceived, regained the anxious domestic.

Screened by an angle of the building, they saw George and his companion

ascend the stone steps, cross the yard, and turn into the street. They

followed him cautiously--Delmé's ears ringing with that fiendish laugh.

George's companion stopped for a moment, at a house in the street, where

they were joined by a sallow-looking priest, apparently one of the most

disgusting of his tribe. He was accompanied by a boy, also drest in

sacerdotal robes, in one hand bearing a silver-ornamented staff, of the

kind frequently used in processions, and in other observances of the

Catholic religion; and in the other, a rude lanthorn, whose light

enabled Delmé to note these particulars. As the four figures swept

through the streets, the lower orders prostrated themselves, before the

figure of the crucified and dying Saviour which surmounted the staff.

They again stopped, and the priest entered a house alone. On coming

back, he was followed by a coffin, borne on the shoulders of four of the

lower order of Maltese. At the moment these were leaving the house,

Henry heard a solitary scream, apparently of a woman. It was wild and

thrilling; such an one as we hear from the hovering sea bird, as the

tempest gathers to a head. To Delmé, coming as it did at that lone hour

from one he saw not, it seemed superhuman. In the front of the house

stood two calèches, the last of which, Sir Henry observed was without

doors. At a sign from the Maltese, George and his strange companion

entered it. They were followed by the coffin, which was placed

lengthways, with the two ends projecting into the street. In the

_leading_ calèche were the priest and boy, the latter of whom thrust

the figure of the bleeding Jesus out at the window, whilst with the

other hand he held up the lanthorn. Twice more did the calèche

stop--twice receive corpses. Another light was produced, and placed in

the last conveyance, and Delmé took the opportunity of their arranging

this, to pass by the calèche. The light that had been placed in it shone

full on George. The coffins were on a level with the lower part of his

face. Nothing of his body, which was jammed in between the seat and the

coffins, could be seen. But the features, which glared over the pall,

were indeed terrific; apathy no longer marked them. George seemed wound

up to an extraordinary state of excitement. Gone was the glazed

expression of his eye, which now gleamed like that of a famished eagle.

The Maltese leant back in the carriage, with a sardonic smile, his dark

face affording a strange contrast to the stained, but yet ghastly hue of

George Delmé's.

"They intend to take them to the vault at Floriana, your honor," said

the servant, "shall I call a calèche, and we can follow them?"

Without waiting a reply, for the man saw that Sir Henry's faculties,

were totally absorbed in the strange scene he had witnessed; Thompson

called a carriage, which passed the other two--now commencing at a

funeral pace to proceed to the vault--and, taking the same direction

which they had done on entering the town, a short time sufficed to put

them down immediately opposite the church. They had time allowed them to

dismiss their carriage, and screen themselves from observation, before

the funeral procession arrived.

This stopped in front of the vault, and Delmé anxiously scrutinised the

proceedings. Another man--probably the one whose place George had

supplied--had joined them outside the town, and now walked by the side

of the calèche. He assisted George's companion in bearing out the

coffins. The huge door grated on its hinges, as they opened it. The

coffins were borne in, and the whole party entered; the priest mumbling

a short Latin prayer. In a short time, the priest alone returned; and

looking cautiously around, and seeing no one, struck a light from a

tinder box, and lighted his cigar. The other two men brought back the

coffins, evidently relieved of their weight; and the priest--the

boy--with the man who had last joined them, and who had also lit his

cigar--entered the first calèche, after exchanging some jokes with

George's companion, and returned at a rapid pace towards the town.

During this time, George Delmé had been left alone in the vault. His

companion returned to him, after taking the precaution to fasten its

doors inside.

Sir Henry was now at a loss what plan to adopt; but Thompson, after a

moment's hesitation, suggested one.

"There is an iron grating, Sir, over part of the vault, through which,

when a bar was loose, I know one of our soldiers went down. Shall I

get a cord?"

The man ran towards his barrack, and returned with it. To wrench by

their united efforts, one bar from its place, and to fasten the rope to

another, was the work of an instant. Space was just left them to creep

through the aperture. Sir Henry was the first to breathe the confined

air of the sepulchre. A voice warned him in what direction to proceed;

and not waiting for the domestic, he groped his way forward through a

narrow passage. At first, Delmé thought there was a wall on either side

him; but as he made a false step, and the bones crumbled beneath, he

knew that it was a wall, formed of the bleached remains of the bygone

dead. As he drew nearer the voice, he was guided by the lanthorn brought

by George's companion; and towards this he proceeded, almost overpowered

by the horrible stench of the charnel house, As he drew near enough to

distinguish objects, what a scene presented itself! In one corner of the

vault, lay a quantity of lime used to consume the bodies, whilst nearer

the light, lay corpses in every stage of putrefaction. In some, the lime

had but half accomplished its purpose; and while in parts of the body,

the bones lay bare and exposed; in others, corruption in its most

loathsome form prevailed. Here the meaner reptiles--active and

prolific--might be seen busily at work, battening on human decay. Sir

Henry stepped over a dead body, and started, as a rat, scared from its

prey, rustled through a wreath of withered flowers, and hid itself amid

a mouldering heap of bones. But there were some forms lovely still! In

them the pulse of life had that day ceased to beat. The rigidity of

Death--his impressive stillness was there--but he had not yet "swept the

lines where beauty lingers."

The Maltese stood with folded arms, closely regarding George Delmé.

George leant against a pillar, with one knee bent. Over it was stretched

the corpse of a girl, with the face horribly decomposed. The dull and

flagging winds of the vault moved her dank and matted hair.

"Acmé," said he, as he parted the dry hair from the blackened brow,

"_do_ but speak to your own George! Be not angry with me, dearest!" He

held the disgusting object to his lips, and lavished endearments on the

putrid corpse.

Delmé staggered--and Thompson supported him--as he gasped for breath

in the extremity of his agony. At this moment his eye caught the face of

the Maltese. He had advanced towards George--his arms were still

folded--his eyes were sparkling with joy--and his features wore the

malignant expression of gratified revenge. Sir Henry sprang to his feet

and rushed forward.

"George! my brother! my brother!"

The maniac raised his pallid brow--his eye flashed consciousness--the

blue veins in his forehead swelled almost to bursting--he tossed his

arms wildly--and sunk powerless on the corpses around--his convulsive

shrieks re-echoing in that lonely vault. Thompson seized the Maltese,

and making him unlock the door, bore the brothers into the open air; for

Henry, at the time, was as much overpowered as George himself.

A clear solution to that curious scene was never given, for George could

not give the clue to his train of mental aberration.

With regard to his companion's share in the transaction, the man was

closely questioned, and other means of information resorted to, but the

only facts elicited were these:

His son had been executed some years before for a desperate attempt to

assassinate a British soldier, with whom he had had an altercation

during the carnival.

The man himself said, that he had no recollection of ever having

seen George before, but that he certainly _did_ remember some

officers questioning him on two occasions somewhat minutely as to

his mode of life.

This part of his story was confirmed by another officer of the regiment,

who remembered George and Delancey being with him on one occasion, when

the latter had taken much interest in the questioning of this man. The

Maltese declared, that on the night in question he was taken entirely by

surprise--that George entered the room abruptly--offered him money to be

allowed to accompany him to the vault--and told him that he had just

placed a young lady there whom he wished to see.

Colonel Vavasour, who took some trouble in arriving at the truth, was

satisfied that the man was well aware of George's insanity, but that

he felt too happy in being able to wreak an ignoble revenge on a

British officer.

Chapter XVI.

The Marriage.

"The child of love, though born in bitterness,

And nurtured in convulsion."

For many days, George Delmé lay on his couch unconscious and

immoveable. If his eye looked calm, it was the tranquillity of

apathetic ignorance, the fixedness of idiotcy. He spoke if he was

addressed, but recognised no one, and his answers were not to the

purpose. He took his food, and would then turn on his side, and close

his eyes as if in sleep. In vain did Acmé watch over him--in vain did

her tears bedew his couch--in vain did Delmé take his hand, and

endeavour to draw his attention to passing objects.

George had never been so long without a lucid interval. The surgeon's

voice grew less cheering every day, as he saw the little amendment in

his patient, and remarked that the pulse was gradually sinking. Colonel

Vavasour never allowed a day to elapse without visiting the invalid; and

in the regiment, his illness excited great commiseration, and drew forth

many expressions of kindness.

"Oh God! oh God!" said Delmé, "he must not sink thus. Just as I am with

him--just as--oh, poor Emily! what will _she_ feel? Can nothing be done,

Mr. Graham?"

"Nothing! Sir: we must now put our whole trust in an all-seeing

Providence. _My_ skill can neither foresee nor hasten the result."

One soft summer's evening, when the wind blew in the scent of flowers

from the opposite gardens--and the ceaseless hum of the insects--those

twilight revellers--sounded happily on the ear, Acmé started from the

couch as a thought crossed her.

"We have never tried music," said she, "I have been too unhappy to

think of it."

Her tears fell fast on the guitar, as she tuned its strings. She sung a

plaintive Greek air. It was the first George ever heard her sing, and

was the favourite. He heard it, when watching; lover-like beneath her

balcony during the first vernal days of their attachment. The song was

gone through sadly, and without hope. George's face was from her, and

she laid down the guitar, weary of life.

George gently turned his head. His eyes wore a subdued melancholy

expression, bespeaking consciousness. Down his cheek one big drop was

trickling.

"Acmé!" said he, "dearest Acmé!"

Delmé, who had left the room, was recalled by the hysterical sobs of the

poor girl, as she fell back on the chair, her hands clasped in joyful

gratitude.

The surgeon, who had immediately been sent for, ordered that George

should converse as little as possible.

What he did say was rational. What a solace was that to Henry and Acmé!

The invalid too appeared well aware of his previous illness, although he

alluded to it but seldom. To those about him, his manner was femininely

soft, as he whispered his thanks, and sense of their kindness.

Immediately after the horrible scene he had witnessed, Sir Henry's mind

had been made up, as to the line of conduct he ought to pursue. The

affectionate solicitude of the young Greek, during George's illness,

gave him no reason to regret his determination.

"Now," said Mr. Graham, one day as George was rapidly recovering,

"now, Sir Henry, I would recommend you to break all you have to say to

George. For God's sake, let them be married; and although, mark me! I

by no means assert that it will quite re-establish George's health,

yet I think such a measure _may_ effectually do so, and at all events

will calm him for the present; which, after all, is the great object

we have in view."

The same day, Delmé went to his brother's bed-side. "George," said he,

"let me take the present opportunity of Acmé's absence, to tell you what

I had only deferred till you were somewhat stronger. She is a good girl,

George, a very good girl. I wish she had been English--it would have

been better!--but this we cannot help. You must marry her, George! I

will be a kind brother-in-law, and Emily shall love her for your sake."

The invalid sat up in his bed--his eyes swam in tears. He twice essayed

to speak, ere he could express his gratitude.

"Thank you! a thousand times thank you! my kind brother! Even _you_

cannot tell the weight of suffering, you have this day taken from my

mind. My conduct towards Acmé has been bowing me to the earth; and yet

I feared your consent would never be obtained. I feared that coldness

from you and Emily would have met her; and that I should have had but

_her_ smile to comfort me for the loss of what I so value. God bless

you for this!"

Delmé was much affected.

To complete his good work, he waited till Acmé had returned from a visit

she had just made to her relations; and taking her aside, told her his

wishes, and detailed his late conversation with George.

"Never! never!" said the young Greek, "I am too happy as I am. I have

heard you all make better lovers than husbands. I cannot be happier!

No! no! I will never consent to it."

All remonstrances were fruitless--no arguments could affect her--no

entreaties persuade.

Delmé, quite perplexed at finding such a difficulty, where he had so

little expected to find one,--pitying her simplicity, but admiring her

disinterestedness,--went to George, and told him Acmé's objections.

"I feared it," said his brother, "but perhaps I may induce her to think

differently. Were I to take advantage of her unsophisticated feelings,

and want of knowledge of the world, I should indeed be a villain."

Acmé was sent for, and came weeping in--took Georg's hand--and gazed

earnestly in his face as he addressed her.

"You must change your mind, dearest," said he. And he told her of the

world's opinion--the contumely she might have to endure--the slights to

which she would be subjected. Still she heeded not.

"Why mention these things?" said she. "Who would insult me, were _you_

near? or if they did, should I regard them while _you_ were kind?"

And her lover's words took a loftier tone; and he spoke of religion, and

of the duties it imposes; of the feelings of his countrywomen; and the

all-seeing eye of their God. Still the fond girl wept bitterly, but

spoke not.

"My own Acmé! consider _my_ health too, dearest! Were you now to

consent, I might never again be ill. It would be cruelty to me to

refuse. Say you consent for _my_ sake, sweet!"

"For your sake, then!" said Acme, as she twined her snowy arms round his

neck, "for _your_ sake, Giorgio, I do so! But oh! when I am yours for

ever by that tie; when--if this be possible--our present raptures are

less fervent--our mutual affections less devoted--do not, dearest

George--do not, I implore you--treat me with coldness. It would break my

heart, indeed it would."

They were married according to the rites of both the Protestant and

Catholic Church. Few were present. George had been lifted to the sofa,

and sat up during the ceremony; and although his features were pale and

emaciated, they brightened with internal satisfaction, as he heard those

words pronounced, which made his love a legitimate one. Acmé was silent

and thoughtful; and tears quenched the fire of her usually sparkling

eye. George Delmé's recovery from this date became more rapid.

He was able to resume his wonted exercise--his step faltered

less--his eye became clearer. His convalescence was so decided, that

the surgeon recommended his at once travelling, and for the present

relinquishing the army.

"Perhaps the excessive heat may not be beneficial. I would, if possible,

get him to Switzerland for the summer months. I will enquire what

outward-bound vessels there are. If there is one for Leghorn, so much

the better. But the sooner he tries change of scene, the more

advantageous it is likely to be; and after all, the climate is but a

secondary consideration."

An American vessel bound to Palermo, happened to be the only one in the

harbour, whose destination would serve their purpose; and determined

not to postpone George's removal, Sir Henry at once engaged its cabin.

Colonel Vavasour obtained George leave for the present, and promised to

arrange as to his exchanging from full pay. He likewise enabled him,

which George felt as a great boon, to take his old and attached servant

with him; with the promise that he would use all his interest to have

the man's discharge forwarded him, before the expiration of his leave.

"He may be useful to you, my dear boy, if you get ill again, which God

forbid! He is an old soldier, and a good man--well deserving the

indulgence. And remember! if you should be better, and feel a returning

penchant for the red coat, write to me--we will do our best to work an

exchange for you."

Chapter XVII.

The Departure.

"Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been,

A sound that makes us linger, yet farewell."

The day of departure at length arrived. Thompson had been busy the

greater part of the night in getting every thing ready for the voyage.

It was a lovely morning, and the wind, although light, was propitious.

Acmé had parted with her relations and friends the day previous.

She was henceforward to share the destiny of one, who was to supply the

place of both to her. Attached to them as she was, and grateful as she

felt for their kindness in the hour of need, there was nothing in that

parting to throw a permanent gloom on the hopes of the youthful bride.

Her love, and the feelings it engendered, were of that confiding nature,

that she could have followed George anywhere, and been happy still. As

it was, her lot seemed cast "in pleasant places," and no foreboding of

evil, except indeed for George, ever marred the waking dreams of Acmé.

Her simple heart had already learnt, to look up with respect and

affection to Sir Henry, and yearned with fond longing for the period

when she should return a sister's love.

She had that lively talent too, which, miniatured as it was, allowed of

her fully appreciating the superiority of the English she had lately

met, to the general run of those with whom she had hitherto associated.

An English home had none but charms for her.

"Come Acmé," said George, as he assisted her in adjusting the first

bonnet that had ever confined her wavy curls, "wish good bye to your

ring-dove, dear! Mrs. Graham will take good care of it; and Thompson has

just finished the packing."

The boat which was to convey them to the vessel was so near, that they

had agreed to walk down to the place of embarkation.

As George left the room, a tall figure presented itself on the

staircase.

"Ah, Clark!" said George, "my good fellow! I am very sorry to part with

you. I do not know what I shall do without my pay serjeant!" and he held

out his hand.

It was grasped gratefully.

"Thank you, your honour!"

The old soldier stood erect, and put his hand to his cap.

"God bless you! Mr. Delmé. I have served under many officers, but never

under a kinder. May the Almighty bless you, Sir, in all your

wanderings."

The soldier turned away--one large drop burst o'er the lid, and trickled

down his sun-burnt cheek.

With the back of his hand, he brushed it off indignantly.

His converse may be rough--his manner rude--his hand ever ready for

quarrel;--but, believe us! ye who deem the soldier beneath his

fellow-men,--that the life of change--of chance--of hardship--and of

danger--which is his, freezes not the kindlier emotions of the soul, if

it sweep away its sicklier refinements. Beneath the red vest, beat

hearts as warm and true, as ever throbbed beneath operative apron, or

swelled under softest robe of ermine.

George was moved by the man's evidently sincere grief. He reached the

bottom of the stairs. The company to which he belonged was drawn up in

the court yard.

In front of it, the four tallest men supported a chair, and almost

before George Delmé was aware of their purpose, bore him to it, and

lifted him on their shoulders, amidst the huzzas of their comrades. The

band, too, which had voluntarily attended, now struck up the march which

George delighted to hear; and, followed by his company, he was carried

triumphantly towards the mole.

George's heart was full.

Sir Henry felt deeply interested in the scene; and poor Acmé leant on

his arm, and wept with joy.

Yes! there are moments in life, and this was one, when the approval of

our inferiors awakens a degree of pride and mental satisfaction, that

no panegyric of our superiors, no expressions of esteem from our

equals, could have ever called forth. Such approval meets us, as the

spontaneous effusion of hearts that have looked up to ours, and have

_not_ been deceived.

This pride was it that flushed George's cheek, and illumed with

brightness his swimming eye. He was thus carried till he arrived at the

spot where his boat should have been. It was already, with Thompson and

their baggage, half way towards the vessel. In its place was the

regimental gig, manned by George's best friends. Its steersman was

Colonel Vavasour, drest in the fanciful aquatic costume his regiment

had adopted.

Trifling as this may appear, this act of his Colonel, seemed to George

the very highest compliment that had ever been paid him.

George Delmé turned to his company, and with choking voice thanked them

for this last mark of attention. We are very certain that a shake of

the hand from a prince, would not have delighted him as much, as did

the hearty farewell greeting of his rough comrades.

Even Acmé blushingly went up to the chair-supporters, and, with a

winning smile, extended her small hand. Vavasour assisted her into the

gig, and it was with a bounding elasticity of spirit, to which he had

long been a stranger, that George followed. As the boat cut through the

water, they were greeted with a last and deafening huzza.

In a short time they were alongside the vessel. The captain was pacing

the deck, and marking the signs of the wind, with the keen eye of the

sailor. A chair was lowered for Acmé. She shook hands with the rowers.

George parted from them as if they had been brothers, and from Colonel

Vavasour last of all.

"Take care of yourself, my dear boy," said the latter, "do not

forget to write us; we shall all be anxious to know how you have

stood the voyage."

As the gig once more shot its way homewards, and many a friendly

handkerchief waved its adieu, George felt, that sad as the parting was,

he should have felt it more _bitterly_ if they had loved him less.

To divert their minds from thoughts of a melancholy nature, Sir Henry,

as the boat made a turn of the land, and was no longer visible, proposed

exploring the cabin. This they found small, but cleanly. Some hampers of

fruit, and a quantity of ice, exhibited agreable proofs of the attention

of Acmé's relations. We may, by the way, observe, that rarely does the

sense of the palate assert its supremacy with greater force than on

board-ship. There will the _thought_--much more the _reality_--of a

mellow pine--or juicy pomegranate--cause the mouth to water for the best

part of a long summer's day. On their ascending the deck, the captain

approached Sir Henry.

"No offence! Sir; but I guess the wind is fair. If you want nothing

ashore, we will off, Sir, _now_! if you please."

Delmé acquiesced.

How disagreable is the act of leaving harbour in a merchant ship!

Even sailors dislike it, and growl between their teeth, like captive

bears. The chains of the anchor clank gratingly on the ear. The very

chorus of the seamen smacks of the land, and wants the rich and free

tone that characterises it in mid-sea. Hoarse are the mandates of the

boat-swain! his whistle painfully shrill! The captain walks the deck

thoughtfully, and frowningly ruminates on his bill of lading--or on some

over-charge in the dock duties--or, it may be, on his dispute on shore

with a part owner of the vessel.

And anon, he shakes off these thoughts, and looks on the

weather-side--then upwards at the the masts--and, as he notes the

proceedings, his orders are delivered fiercely, and his passions seem

ungovernable.

The vessel, too, seems to share the general feeling--is loath to

leave the port.

She unsteadily answers the call of her canvas--her rigging creaks--and

her strong sides groan--as she begins lazily and slowly to make her way.

Glad to turn their attention to anything rather than the scene around,

George began conversing on the effect the attentions of his company and

brother officers had had on him.

"Their kindness," said George, "was wholly unexpected by me, and I felt

it very deeply. An hour before, I fancied that Acmé and my own family

monopolised every sympathy I possessed. But, thank God! the heart has

many hidden channels through which kindness may steal, and infuse its

genial balm."

"_I_ felt 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 a breath fanned the

sails, as the vessel slowly glided between the Calabrian and Sicilian

coasts, approaching quite close to the former.

The party, seated on chairs placed on the deck, gazed in a spirit of

placid enjoyment on one of those scenes, which the enthusiastic

traveller often recals, as in his native clime, he pines for foreign

lands, and for novel impressions. The sun was setting over the purple

peaks of the Calabrian mountains, smiling in sunny gladness on deep

ravines, whose echoes few human feet now woke, save those of simple

peasant, or lawless bandit. Where the orb of day held its declining

course, the sky wore a hue of burnished gold; its rich tint alone

varied, by one fleecy violet cloud, whose outline of rounded beauty, was

marked by a clear cincture of white,

On their right, beneath the mountain, lay the little village of Capo del

Marte, a perfect specimen of Italian scenery.

Its sandy beach, against which the tide beat in dalliance--the chafed

spray catching and reflecting the glories of the setting sun--ran

smoothly up a slope of some thirty yards; beyond which, the orange

trees, in their greenest foliage, chequered with their shade the white

cottages scattered above them.

The busy hum of the fishermen on the coast--the splash of the casting

net--and the drip of the oar--were appropriate accompaniments to the

simple scene.

On the Sicilian side, a different view wooed attention. There, old Etna

upreared his encumbered head, around which the smoke clung in dense

majesty; and--not contemptible rivals of the declining deity--the moon's

silvery crescent, and the evening star's quiet splendour, were bedecking

the cloudless blue of the firmament.

Acmé gazed enraptured on the scene--her long tresses hanging back on the

chair, across which one hand was languidly thrown.

"Giorgio," said she, "do you see this beautiful bird close to the

ship--swimming so steadily--its snowy plumage apparently unwet from its

contact with the wave? To what can you compare it?"

"That bright-eyed gull, love!" replied he, "riding on the water as if

all regardless that he is on the wide--wide sea--whose billows may so

soon be lashed up to madness;--where may I find a resemblance more

close, than my Acmé's simplicity, which guides her through a troubled

world, unknowing its treacheries, and happily ignorant of its dangers

and its woes?"

"Ah!" said the blushing girl, "how poetical you are this evening; will

you tell us a story, Giorgio?"

"_I_ will tell you one," said Delmé, interrupting her. "Do you recollect

old Featherstone, who had been in the civil service in India, and who

lived so near Delmé Park, George?"

"Perfectly," said his brother, "I remember I used to think him mad,

because he always looked so melancholy, and used to send us word in the

morning when he contemplated a visit; in order that all cats might be

kept out of his way."

"The very man! I am glad you know so much about him, for it is on this

subject I was going to speak. I cannot tell you where he picked up the

idea originally--but I believe in a dream--that a cat would occasion

his death.

"Well! he was at Ascot one year, when a gipsy woman came up to him on

the course--told him his fortune--and, to his utter astonishment, warned

him to beware of the wild cat.

"From that moment, I understand his habits changed. From being a

tolerably cheerful companion, he became a wretched hypochondriac; all

his energies being directed to the avoiding a contact with any of the

feline race.

"Featherstone, two or three years ago, embarked in one of the mining

speculations--lost great part of his fortune--and found it necessary to

try and retrieve his affairs, by a second voyage to India.

"I heard nothing more of him, till just before leaving England, when

my old school-fellow, Lockhart, who went as a cadet to the East,

called on me--reminded me of our old whimsical friend--and related

his tragic death.

"Lockhart says that one day he and some mutual friends, persuaded

Featherstone to accompany them into the interior of the country, to

enjoy the diversion of a boar hunt.

"They had had good sport, and were returning homewards, when they

suddenly came on a party of natives, headed by the Rajah.

"They were mounted on elephants, and surrounding a jungle, in which, as

some sepoys had reported, lay a tiger.

"You know Lockhart's manner--animated and enthusiastic--making one see

the scene he is describing.

"I will try and clothe the rest of the story in his own words, although I

can hardly hope it will make the same impression on you, that its

recital did on me.

"'Well, Sir! we all said we would see the sport--all but

Featherstone--who said something about coming on.

"'We were engaged to dine with Sir John M----, who was in that part of

the world, on some six-and-eightpenny mission about indigo.

"'The beaters went in, firing and shouting--intending to make him break

towards the hunting party.

"'We all drew up on one side, to be in view, but out of the way;

Featherstone was next me. He suddenly grasped my arm, and pointed to the

jungle, his teeth chattering--his face ashy pale. I turned and saw the

tiger!--a splendid beast--certainly!

"'He seemed not to notice us, and stalked on with an innocent yep! yep!

like a sick hound's, more than anything else.

"'Suddenly his eye caught us, and flashed fire. At the first view, he

crouched to the earth, then came on us, bounding like a tost foot-ball.

More magnificent leaps I never beheld! We were struck dumb--but

fired--and turned our horses' heads!--all but Featherstone.

"'I shall remember the tones of his voice to my dying hour.

"'"The cat! Lockhart! the cat!"

"'I don't know whether his horse refused the spur--or whether the rider's

nerve was gone: but neither appeared to make an effort, till the animal

was close on them.

"'The horse gave one plunge--and had hardly recovered his feet, when down

went horse and rider.

"'Featherstone gave a piercing scream! Some of the sepoys were by this

time up--and fired.

"'The tiger trailed off--the blood spouting down his striped side.

"'We came up--it was all over!

"'The first stroke of that terrific paw had laid the unfortunate man's

scull bare. On his shoulder, were the marks of the animal's teeth.

"'The horse was still writhing in agony. One of my pistols relieved him.

"'We bore Featherstone to the nearest cantonment, and buried him there.'"

"How terrible!" said Acmé, as she gave a slight shudder. "Englishmen are

generally more sceptical on these points than we are; and disbelieve

supernatural appearances, which we are accustomed to think are not

unfrequent. I could tell you many stories, which, in my native island,

were believed by our enemies the Turks, as well as by ourselves: but if

you would like it, I will tell you a circumstance that occurred to

myself, the reality of which I dare not doubt.

"You have often, Giorgio! heard me revert with pain, to the horrible

scene which took place, on the recapture of our little isle by the

infidel Turks; when my family were massacred, and only poor Acmé left to

tell their tale."

Here the young bride put her handkerchief to her face, and wept

bitterly. George put his arm round her and soothed her. She continued

her narrative.

"You know my escape, and how I was sent to a kinsman, who had promised

to have me sent to my kind friends in Malta. He was a Corfuote, and it

was in Corfu I remained for a long--a very long time--and there first

met my dear friend, Zöe Scalvo-Forressi. I was then very young. We lived

in the Campagna--about four miles from each other.

"We had both our Greek ponies, and used often to pass the evenings

together; and at length knew our road so well, that often it was night

before we parted.

"One night, we had been singing together at her house, and it was later

than usual when I cantered home.

"About four months had elapsed previous to my landing in Corfu, and I had

been eight months there; although at the time, I paid little attention

to these circumstances.

"My road lay through an olive grove. I had arrived in its centre, where

a small knoll stretched away on my right; on whose summit, was a white

Greek monastery, backed by some dark cypress trees.

"The moon was shining brightly--dancing on the silver side of the olive

trees--and illuminating the green sward.

"This was smooth and verdant.

"My spirits were more than usually buoyant, when suddenly my pony

stopped.

"I could not conceive the reason.

"I looked before me. Immediately in front of me, was the shattered trunk

of an old olive tree--it had been blasted by lightning--and sitting

quietly at its foot--I saw my own mother, Giorgio! as clearly as I see

you now. I could not be mistaken. She wore the same embroidered vest and

Albanian shawl, as when I had last seen her.

"She conversed with me calmly for many minutes, and--which surprised me

much at the time--I felt no dread, and asked her and answered many

questions.

"She told me I should die early, in a foreign land; and many--many more

things, which I dare not repeat; for I cannot contemplate the

possibility of their being true.

"At the time, I told you I felt composed: without any sense of alarm

or surprise. For many days afterwards, however, I never left my bed

of sickness.

"I told my kinsman all the circumstances, and he discovered beyond a

doubt, that it was on that very day, the twelve-month previous, that my

poor mother had been murdered."

Sir Henry and George tried to smile at Acmé's story, and account for

what she had seen;--but her manner was so impressive, and her ingenious

reasonings--delivered in the most earnest tone--seemed to confute so

entirely all their speculations, that they were at length content to

deem it "wondrous strange."

In the best and wisest of us, there is such a tendency to believe in a

mysterious link, connecting the living and the departed; that a story

of this nature, in exciting our feelings, serves to paralyse our

reasoning faculties, and leaves us half converts, to the doctrines that

we faintly combat.

They looked forth again on the scene. The mountains of Calabria were

frowning on them. The village was far behind--and not a straggling light

marked its situation.

Numberless stars were reflected on the glassy water, whose serenity was

no longer ruffled by wing of sea bird, which long ere now had returned

to its "wave girded nest."

Our party and the watch were the only lingerers on deck.

George wrapped Acmé's silk cloak around her, and then carefully assisted

her in her descent to the cabin.

Chapter XX.

The Mad House.

"And see the mind's convulsion leave it weak."

The land breeze continued to freshen, and the first dawn of morning saw

our party on deck, scanning with near view, the opposite coasts of

Sicily and Italy, as their vessel glided through the Faro of Messina.

Some pilot boats,--how unlike those which greet the homeward-bound

voyager, as he first hails Britain's chalky cliffs--crowded around the

vessel, offering their services to guide it through the strait.

Avarice--one incentive to language--had endowed these Sicilian mariners

with a competent knowledge of English, which they dealt out

vociferously.

As the Captain made his selection, the rejected candidates failed not

to use that familiar English salâm; half the gusto of which is lost,

when used by foreign lip.

On the Calabrian coast, the sea-port town of Reggio wore an unusual air

of bustle and animation.

It was a festa day there; and groups of peasants, in many-coloured

costumes, paced up and down the mole; emitting that joyous hum, which

is the never-failing concomitant of a happy crowd. Passing through

the Faro, the vessel's course lay by the northern coast of Sicily.

The current and wind were alike favourable, as it swept on by Melazzo

and Lascari.

Etna, towering over the lesser mountains, became once more visible; its

summit buried in the clouds of heaven.

On the right, a luminous crimson ring revealed Stromboli, whose fitful

volcano was more than usually active.

The following day our party arrived at Palermo. So pleasurable had been

their voyage, that it was with a feeling akin to regret, that they heard

the rumbling chains of the anchor, rush through the hawse-hole, as

their vessel took her station in the bay.

After going through those wearisome forms, which a foreign sea-port

exacts; and which appear purposely intended, to temper the rapture of

the sea-worn voyager, as he congratulates himself on once more treading

terra firma; our party found themselves the inmates of the English

hotel; and spent the remainder of the day in engaging a cicerone, and in

discussing plans for the morrow.

The morrow came--sunny and cloudless--and the cicerone bowed to the

ground, as he opened the door of the commodious fiacre.

"Where shall I drive to, Sir?"

"What were our plans, George?" said Sir Henry.

"I think," replied George, "that we only formed one plan to change it

for another. Let the cicerone decide for us."

_He,_ nothing loath, accepted the charge; and taking his station on the

box of the carriage, directed the driver.

The carriage first stopped before a large stone building. The bell was

rung--a veteran porter presented himself--and our party entered the

court yard.

"What place is this?" said Delmé.

"This," rejoined his guide, with the true cicerone fluency, "is the

famous lunatic asylum, instituted by the illustrious Baron Pisani. This,

gentlemen, is the Baron!"

Here a benevolent-looking little man with a large nose, took off his

hat.

"So much approved of was his beneficent design, that our noble King, and

our paternal Government, have not only adopted it; but have graciously

permitted the Baron, to continue to preside over that institution, which

he so happily commenced, and which he so refulgently adorns."

During this announcement, the Baron's face flushed with a simple, but

honest pride.

These praises did not to him appear exaggerated; for his intentions had

been of the purest, and in this institution was his whole soul wrapt up.

Acmé became somewhat pale, as she heard where they were, and looked

nervously at George; who could not forbear smiling, as he begged they

would be under no apprehensions.

"Yes! gentlemen," said the Baron, "circumstances in early life made me

regard mental disease as the most fearful of all. I observed its victims

struggling between reason and insanity; goaded on by the ignorance of

empirics, and the harsh treatment of those about them, until light fled

the tortured brain, and madness directed its every impulse. You,

gentlemen, are English travellers, I perceive! In _your_ happy land,

where generosity and wealth go hand in hand, there are, I doubt not,

many humane institutions, where those, who--bowed down by misfortunes,

or preyed on by disease--have lost the power to take care of themselves,

may find a home, where they may be anxiously tended, and carefully

provided for.

"Here we knew not of such things.

"I have said, gentlemen, that chance made me feel a deep interest in

these unfortunates. I sunk the greater part of my fortune, in

constructing this mansion, trusting that the subscriptions of

individuals, would enable me to prosecute the good work.

"In this I was disappointed; but our worthy Viceroy, who took an interest

in my plans, laid the matter before the Government, which--as Signer

Guiseppe observes--has not only undertaken to support my asylum, but

also permits me to preside over the establishment. _That_, gentlemen, is

my apartment, with the mignionette boxes in front, and without iron bars

in the window; though indeed these very bars are painted, at my

suggestion, such a delicate green, that you might not have been aware

that they were such.

"This is our first chamber--cheerful and snug. Here are the patients

first brought. We indulge them in all their caprices, until we are

enabled to decide with certainty, on the fantasy the brain has conjured

up. From this room, we take them to the adjacent bed-room, where we

administer such remedies as we think the best fitted to restore reason.

"If these fail, we apportion the patient a cell, and consider the case as

beyond our immediate relief. We cure, on an average, two-thirds of the

cases forwarded to us; and there have been instances of the mind's

recovering its tone, after a confinement of some years."

"How many inmates have you in the asylum at present?" said Acmé.

"One hundred and thirty-six, eighty-six of whom are males. These are our

baths, to which they are daily taken; this the refectory; this the

parlatorio, where they see their friends; and now, if the lady is not

afraid, we will descend to the court yard, and see my charges."

"There is no fear?" said George.

"Not in the least. Our punishment is so formidable, that few will incur

it by being refractory."

"What! then you are obliged to punish them?" said Acmé, with a shudder.

"Sometimes, but not often. I will show you what our punishment consists

in. You see this room without furniture! Observe the walls and floor;

and even the door as it closes. All these are carefully stuffed; and if

you walk across the room, there is no sound.

"We cautiously search violent lunatics; who are then dressed in a plain

flannel suit, and left alone. It is seldom we have occasion to retain

them longer than twenty-four hours. They soon find they cannot injure

themselves; their most violent efforts cannot elicit a sound. Their

minds become calmed; and when released, they are perfectly quiet, and

generally inclined to melancholy."

They descended to the court yard, set apart for the men. Its inmates

were pacing it hurriedly; some jabbering to themselves; others with

groups round them, to whom they addressed some quickly delivered jargon.

With one or two exceptions, all noticed the entrance of the strangers;

and some of them bowed to them, with mock gravity. One man, who wore an

old cocked hat with a shabby feather, tapped Sir Henry on the shoulder.

"Vous me reconnaissez--Napoleon! votre Empereur!"

He wheeled round, and called for his Mamelukes.

The next moment, a young and interesting looking person came forward,

the tears standing in his, eyes, and extended his hand to Acmé.

"Give me yours," said he, "as a great favour. I was a painter once in

Naples--and I went to Rome--and I loved Gianetta Cantieri!"

A more ludicrous incident now occurred. At and since their entrance,

our party had heard what seemed the continued bark of a dog. A man on

all fours came forward from behind a group, and with unmeaning face,

and nostril snuffing up the wind, imitated to perfection the deep bay

of a mastiff.

"That man's peculiarity," observed the Baron, "is an extraordinary one.

He had a cottage near Catania, and had saved some little wealth. His

house was one night robbed of all it contained. This misfortune preyed

on the man's reason, and he now conceives himself a watch dog. He knows

the step of every inmate of the asylum, and only barks at strangers."

From the male court yard, the Baron ushered them to the female, where

insanity assumed a yet more melancholy shape.

A pale-faced maniac, with quivering frame, and glaring eye-balls,

continued to cry, in a low and piteous tone, "Murder! murder!!

murder!!!"

One woman, reclining on the cold pavement, dandled a straw, and called

it her sweet child; while another hugged a misshapen block of wood to

her bared breast, and deemed it her true love.

A third was on her knees, and at regular intervals, bent down her

shrivelled body, and devoured the gravel beneath her.

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.

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 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!