A Love Story, by a Bushman, - [books for 8th graders txt] 📗
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Leaving the coffee-room, they were accosted by a driver of one of the
public coaches.
“Now, Signore! just in time for Vesuvius! See the sun rise! superb sight!
elegant carriage!”
“Do let us go!” said Acmé, clapping her hands with youthful enthusiasm.
“No, no! my dear!” said Sir Henry, “we must not think of it! you would be
so tired.”
“No, no! you do not know how strong I am; and I intend sleeping on
George’s shoulder all the way—and we are all in such high spirits—and
these improvised excursions you yourself granted were always best—and
besides, you know we must always start at this hour, if we expect to see
the sunrise from the mountain. What do you say, Giorgio?”
The discussion ended, by the driver taking the direction of the hotel;
whence, after making arrangements as to provisions and change of dress,
the party started for the mountain.
The warm cheek of Acmé was reposing on that of her husband; and the wanton
night air was disporting with her wavy tresses, as the loud halloo of the
driver, warned them that they were in Portici, and in the act of arousing
Salvador, the guide to the mountain. After some short delay, they procured
mules. Each brother armed himself with a long staff, and leaving the
carriage, they wended their way towards the Hermitage.
It was a clear night. The moon was majestically gliding on her path,
vassalled by myriads of stars.
There was something in the hour—and the scene—and the novelty of the
excursion—that enjoined silence.
Arrived at the Hermitage, the party dismounted. Acmé clung to the strap,
fastened round their guide, and they commenced the ascent. In a short
time, they had manifest proofs of their vicinity to the volcano. The
ashy lava gave way at each footstep, and it was only by taking short and
quick steps, and perseveringly toiling on, that they were enabled to
make any progress.
More than once, was Acmé inclined to stop, and take breath, but the guide
assured them they were already late, and that they would only just be in
time for the sunrise.
As the last of the party reached the summit, the sun became
perceptible—and rose in glory indescribable. The scene afar how gorgeous!
around them how grand!
Panting from their exertions, they sat on a cloak of Salvador’s, and gazed
with astonishment at the novelties bursting on the eye.
Each succeeding moment, gusts of flame issued forth from the crater.
They looked down on the bason, above which they were. From a conical
pyramid of lava, were emitted volumes of smoke, which rolled up to heaven
in rounded and fantastic shapes of beauty. Below, a deep azure—above, of
a clear amber hue—the clouds wreathed and ascended majestically, as if
in time to the rumbling thunder—the accompaniments of nature’s
subterraneous throes.
Their fatigues were amply repaid. Sir Henry’s curiosity was aroused, and
he descended with the guide to the crater. George and Acmé, delighted with
the excursion, remained on the summit, partaking of Salvador’s provisions.
The descent they found easy and rapid; the lava now assisting, as much as
it had formerly impeded them.
At Portici, Salvador introduced them to his apartment, embellished with
specimens of lava. They purchased some memorials of their visit—partook
of some fruit—and, after rewarding the guide, they returned to Naples.
Another of their excursions, and it is one than which there are few more
interesting, was to that city—which, like the fabulous one of the eastern
tale, rears its temples, but there are none to worship; its theatres, but
there are none to applaud; its marble statues, where are the eyes that
should dwell on them with pride? Its mansions are many—its walls and
tesselated pavements, show colours of vivid hue, and describe tales
familiar from our boyhood. The priest is at his altar—the soldiers in
their guard-room—the citizen in his bath. It is indeed difficult, as our
step re-echoes through the silent streets, to divest ourselves of the
impression, that we are wandering where the enchanter’s wand has been all
powerful, that he has waved it, and lo! the city sleeps for a season,
until some event shall have been fulfilled.
Our party were in the Via Appia of Pompeii, when Acmé turned aside, to
remark one tomb more particularly. It was an extensive one, surrounded
with a species of iron net work, through which might be seen ranges of red
earthen vases. Acme turned to the custode, and asked if this was the
burial place of some noble family.
“No! Signora! this is where the ashes of the gladiators are preserved.”
From the Appian Way, they entered through the public gate; and passing
many shops, whose signs yet draw notice, if they no longer attract custom,
they came to the private houses, and entered one—that called
Sallust’s—for the purpose of a more minute inspection.
“Nothing appears to be more strange,” said George, “on looking at these
frescoed paintings, and on such mosaics as we have yet seen; than the
extraordinary familiarity of their subjects.
“There are many depicted on these walls, and I do not think, Henry, we
are first rate classics;—and yet it would be difficult to puzzle us, in
naming the story whence these frescoes have their birth. Look at this
Latona—and Leda—and the Ariadne abbandonata—and this must certainly be
the blooming Hebe. Ah! and look at this little niche! This grinning little
deity—the facsimile of an Indian idol—must express their idea of the
Penates. Strange! is it not?”
“But are you not,” rejoined Sir Henry, “somewhat disappointed in the
dwelling-houses? This seems one of the most extensive, and yet, how
diminutive the rooms! and how little of attraction in the whole
arrangement, if we except this classic fountain.
“This I think is a proof, that the ancient Romans must have chiefly passed
their day abroad—in the temples—the forum—or the baths—and have left
as home tenants none but women, and those unadorned with the toga virilis.
“These habits may have tended to engender a manlier independence; and
to impart to their designs a loftier spirit of enterprise. What say
you, Acmé?”
“I might perhaps answer,” replied Acmé, “that the happiness gained, is
well worth the glory lost. But I must not fail to remind you, that—grand
as this nation must have been—my poor fallen one was its precursor—its
tutor—and its model.”
Hence they wandered to the theatre—the forum—the pantheon—and
amphitheatre:—which last, from their converse in the earlier part of the
day—fancy failed not to fill with daring combatants. As the guide
pointed out the dens for the wild beasts—the passages through which they
came—and the arena for the combat—Sir Henry, like most British
travellers, recalled the inimitable story of Thraso, and his lion fight.
[Footnote: In Valerius.]
The following day was devoted to the Studio, and to the inspection of the
relics of Pompeii.
These relics, interesting as they are, yet convey a melancholy lesson to
the contemplative mind. Each modern vanity here has its parallel—each
luxury its archetype. Here may be found the cameoed ring—and the signet
seal—and the bodkin—and paint for the frail one’s cheek—a cuirass, that
a life guardsman might envy—weights—whose elegance of shape charm the
eye. Not an article of modern convenience or of domestic comfort, that has
not its representative. They teach us the trite French lesson.
“L’histoire se répète.”
With the exception of these two excursions, and one to Poestum; our
travellers passed their mornings sight-seeing in Naples, and chiefly at
the Studio, whose grand attraction is the thrilling group of the
Taureau Farnese.
In the cool of the evening, until twilight’s hour was past, they drove
into the country, or promenaded in the gardens of the Villa Reale, to the
sound of the military band.
Each night they turned their footsteps towards the Mole; where they
embarked on the unruffled bay. To a young and loving heart—the heart of a
bride—no pleasure can equal that, of being next the one loved best on
earth—at night’s still witching hour. The peculiar scenery of Naples, yet
more enhances such pleasure.
Elsewhere night may boast its azure vault and its silver stars. Cynthia
may ride the heavens in majesty—the water may be serene—and the heart
attuned to the night’s beauty:—but from the land, if discernible—we
can rarely expect much addition to the charms of the scene, and can never
expect it to form its chief attraction. At Naples it is otherwise.
Our eyes turn to the Volcano, whose flame, crowning the mountain’s summit,
crimsons the sky.
We watch with undiminished interest, its fitful action—now bursting out
brilliantly—now fading, as if about to be extinguished for ever. Seated
beside George, and thus gazing, what pleasure was Acmé‘s! We need not say
time flew swiftly. Never did happiness meet with more ardent votary than
in that young bride—or find a more ready mirror, on which to reflect her
beaming attributes—than on the features of that bride’s husband.
Their swimming eyes would fill with tears—and their voices sink to the
lowest whisper.
Sir Henry rarely interrupted their converse; but leant his head on the
boat’s side, and thoughtfully gazed on the placid waters, till he almost
deemed he saw reflected on its surface, the face of one, in whose society
he felt he too might be blest.
But these fancies would not endure long. Delmé would quickly arouse
himself; and, warned by the lateness of the hour, and feeling the
necessity that existed, for his thinking for the all-engrossed pair, would
order the rowers to direct the boat’s course homewards.
Returned to their hotel, it may be that orisons more heavenward, have
issued from hearts more pure.
Few prayers more full of gratitude, have been whispered by earthly
lips, than were breathed by George and his young wife in the solitude
of their chamber.
How often is such uncommon happiness as this the precursor of evil!
Chapter II.
The Doctor.
“Son port, son air de suffisance,
Marquent dans son savoir sa noble confiance.
Dans les doctes debats ferme et rempli de coeur,
Même après sa défaite il tient tête an vainqueur.
Voyez, pour gagner temps, quelles lenteurs savantes,
Prolongent de ses mots les syllabes traînantes!
Tout le monde l’admire, et ne peut concevoir
Que dans un cerveau seul loge tant de savoir.”
It was soon after the excursion to Poestum, that a packet of letters
reached the travellers from Malta. These letters had been forwarded from
England, on the intelligence reaching Emily, of George’s intended
marriage. They had been redirected to Naples, by Colonel Vavasour, and
were accompanied by a few lines from himself.
In Sir Henry’s communication with his sister, he had prudently thrown a
veil, over the distressing part of George’s story, and had dwelt warmly,
on the beauty and sweetness of temper of Acmé Frascati. He could hardly
hope that the proposed marriage, would meet with the entire approval of
those, to whom he addressed himself.
The letters in reply, however, only breathed the affectionate overflowings
of kind hearts. Mrs. Glenallan sent her motherly blessing to George; and
Emily, in addition to a long communication to her brother, wrote to Acmé
as to a beloved sister; begging her to hasten George’s return to England,
that they might meet one, in whom they must henceforward feel the
liveliest interest.
“How kind they all are,” said George. “I only wish we were with them.”
“And so do I,” said Acmé. “How dearly I shall love them all.”
“George!” said Sir Henry, abruptly, “do you know, I think it is quite time
we should move farther north. The weather is getting most oppressive; and
we have
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