A Love Story, by a Bushman, - [books for 8th graders txt] 📗

the weapon of the herdsman, the

haughty giant.

 

The inimitable Perseus, too! the idol of that versatile genius, Benvenuto

Cellini:—an author! a goldsmith! a cunning artificer in jewels! a founder

in bronze! a sculptor in marble! the prince of good fellows! the favored

of princes! the warm friend and daring lover! as we gaze on his glorious

performance, and see beside it the Hercules, and Cacus of his rival Baccio

Bandanelli,—we seem to live again in those days, with which Cellini has

made us so familiar:—and almost naturally regard the back of the bending

figure, to note if its muscles warrant the stinging sarcasm of Cellini,

which we are told at once dispelled the pride of the aspiring

artist—“that they resembled cucumbers!”

 

The rape of the Sabines, too! the white marble glistening in the

obscurity, until the rounded shape of the maiden seems to elude the strong

grasp of the Roman!

 

Will she ever fly from him thus? will the home of her childhood be ever as

dear? No! the husband’s love shall replace the father’s blessing; and the

affections of the daughter, shall yield to the tender yearnings of the

mother’s bosom.

 

We marvel not that George’s footsteps lingered there!

 

How often have we—martyrs to a hopeless nympholepsy—strayed through

that piazza, at the self same hour—there deemed that the heart would

break—but never thought that it might slowly wither.

 

How often have we gleaned from those beauteous objects around, but

aliment to our morbid griefs;—and turning towards the gurgling fountain

of Ammonati, and gazing on its trickling waters, have vainly tried to

arrest our trickling tears!

 

Chapter VIII.

 

Arguà.

 

“There is a tomb in Arquà: rear’d in air,

Pillar’d in their sarcophagus, repose

The bones of Laura’s lover.”

 

*

 

“I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs.”

 

How glorious is the thrill, which shoots through our frame, as we first

wake to the consciousness of our intellectual power; as we feel the

spirit—the undying spirit—ready to burst the gross bonds of flesh, and

soar triumphant, over the sneers of others, and our own mistrust.

 

How does each thought seem to swell in our bosom, as if impatient of the

confined tenement—how do the floating ideas congregate—how does each

impassioned feeling subdue us in turn, and long for a worthy utterance!

 

This is a very bright moment in the history of our lives. It is one in

which we feel—indubitably feel—that we are of the fashioning of

God;—that the light which intellect darts around us, is not the result of

education—of maxims inculcated—or of principles instilled;—but that it

is a ray caught from the brightness of eternity—that when our wavering

pulse has ceased to beat, and the etherialised elements have left the

baser and the useless dust—that ray shall not be quenched; but shall

again be absorbed in the full effulgence from which it emanated.

 

Surely then, if such a glorious moment as this, be accorded to even the

inferior votaries of knowledge—to the meaner pilgrims, struggling on

towards the resplendent shrines of science:—how must he—the divine

Petrarch, who could so exquisitely delineate love’s hopes and story, as to

clothe an earthly passion, with half the attributes of an immortal

affection:—how must he have revelled in the proud sensations called

forth at such a moment!

 

It is the curse of the poet, that he must perforce leave the golden

atmosphere of loftiest aspirations—step from the magic circle, where all

is pure and etherial—and find himself the impotent denizen, of a sombre

and an earthly world,

 

It was in the early part of September, that the brothers turned their

backs on the Etrurian Athens. Their destination was Venice, and their

route lay through Bologna and Arquà.

 

They had been so satisfied, under the guidance of their old vetturino,

that Sir Henry made an arrangement, which induced him to be at Florence,

at the time of their departure;—and Pietro and Thompson were once more

seated beside each other.

 

Before commencing the ascent of the Appennines, our travellers visited the

country seat of the Archduke; saw the gigantic statue executed by John of

Bologna, which frowns over the lake; and at Fonte-buona, cast a farewell

glance on Florence, and the ancient Fiesole.

 

As they advanced towards Caravigliojo, the mountains began to be more

formidable, and the scenery to lose its smiling character.

 

Each step seemed to add to the barrenness of the landscape.

 

The wind came howling down from the black volcanic looking ridges—then

swept tempestuously through some deep ravine.

 

On either side the road, tall red poles presented themselves, a guide to

the traveller during winter’s snows; while, in one exposed gully, were

built large stone embankments for his protection—as a Latin inscription

intimated—from the violence of the gales.

 

Few signs of life appeared.

 

Here and there, her white kerchief shading a sunburnt face, a young

Bolognese shepherd girl might be seen on some grassy ledge, waving her

hand coquettishly; while her neglected flock, with tinkling bell, browsed

on the edge of the precipice. As they neared Bologna, however, the

scenery changed.

 

Festoons of grapes, trained to leafy elms, began to appear—white villas

chequered the suburbs—and it was with a pleasurable feeling, that they

neared the peculiar looking city, with its leaning towers, and old

façades. It is the only one, where the Englishman recals Mrs, Ratcliffe’s

harrowing tales; and half expects to see a Schedoni, advancing from some

covered portico.

 

The next day found them in the Bolognese gallery, which is the first which

duly impresses the traveller, coming from the north, with the full powers

of the art.

 

The soul of music seems to dwell in the face of the St. Cecilia; and the

cup of maternal anguish to be filled to the brim, as in Guide’s Murder of

the Innocents, the mother clasps to her arms the terrified babe, and

strives to flee from the ruthless destroyer.

 

It was on the fourth morning from their arrival in Bologna, that they

approached the poet’s “mansion and his sepulchre.”

 

As they threaded the green windings of vine covered hills, these gradually

assumed a bolder outline, and, rising in separate cones, formed a sylvan

amphitheatre round the lovely village of Arquà.

 

The road made an abrupt ascent to the Fontana Petrarca. A large ruined

arch spanned a fine spring, that rushes down the green slope.

 

In the church-yard, on the right, is the tomb of Petrarch.

 

Its peculiarly bold elevation—the numberless thrilling associations

connected with the poet—gave a tone and character to the whole scene. The

chiaro-scuro of the landscape, was from the light of his genius—the shade

of his tomb.

 

The day was lovely—warm, but not oppressive. The soft green of the hills

and foliage, checked the glare of the flaunting sunbeams.

 

The brothers left the carriage to gaze on the sarcophagus of red marble,

raised on pilasters; and could not help deeming even the indifferent

bronze bust of Petrarch, which surmounts this, to be a superfluous

ornament in such a scene.

 

The surrounding landscape—the dwelling place of the poet—his tomb facing

the heavens, and disdaining even the shadow of trees—the half-effaced

inscription of that hallowed shrine—all these seemed appropriate, and

melted the gazer’s heart.

 

How useless! how intrusive! are the superfluous decorations of art, amid

the simpler scenes of nature.

 

Ornament is here misplaced. The feeling heart regrets its presence at the

time, and attempts, albeit in vain, to banish it from after recollections.

 

George could not restrain his tears, for he thought of the dead; and they

silently followed their guide to Petrarch’s house, now partly used as a

granary. Passing through two or three unfinished rooms, whose walls were

adorned with rude frescoes of the lover and his mistress, they were shown

into Petrarch’s chamber, damp and untenanted.

 

In the closet adjoining, were the chair and table consecrated by the poet.

 

There did he sit—and write—and muse—and die!

 

George turned to a tall narrow window, and looked out on a scene, fair and

luxuriant as the garden of Eden.

 

The rich fig trees, with their peculiar small, high scented fruit, mixed

with the vines that clustered round the lattice.

 

The round heads of the full bearing peach trees, dipped down in a leafy

slope beneath a grassy walk;—and this thicket of fruit was charmingly

enlivened, by bunches of the scarlet pomegranate, now in the pride of

their blossom.

 

The poet’s garden alone was neglected—rank herbage choking up its

uncultivated flowers.

 

A thousand thoughts filled the mind of George Delmé.

 

He thought of Laura! of his own Acmé!

 

With swimming glance, he looked round the chamber.

 

It was almost without furniture, and without ornament. In a niche, and

within a glass case, was placed the skeleton of a dumb favourite of

Petrarch’s.

 

Suddenly George Delmé felt a faintness stealing over him:—and he

turned to bare his forehead, to catch the slight breeze from below

redolent of sweets.

 

This did not relieve him.

 

A sharp pain across the chest, and a fluttering at the heart, as of a bird

struggling to be free, succeeded this faintness.

 

Another rush of blood to the head:—and a snap, as of some tendon, was

distinctly felt by the sufferer.

 

His mouth filled with blood.

 

A small blood-vessel had burst, and temporary insensibility ensued.

 

Sir Henry was wholly unprepared for this scene.

 

Assisted by Thompson, he bore him to the carriage—sprinkled his face with

water—and administered cordials.

 

George’s recovery was speedy; and it almost seemed, as if the rupture of

the vessel had been caused by the irregular circulation, for no further

bad effects were felt at the time.

 

The loss of blood, however, evidently weakened him; and his spasms

henceforward were more frequent.

 

He became less able to undergo fatigue; and his mind, probably in

connection with the nervous system, became more than ordinarily excited.

 

There was no longer wildness in his actions; but in his thoughts and

language, was developed a poetical eccentricity—a morbid sympathy with

surrounding scenes and impressions, which kept Sir Henry Delmé in a

constant state of alarm,—and which was very remarkable.

 

*

 

“What! at Mestré already, Pietro?” said Sir Henry.

 

“Even so, Signore! and here is the gondola to take you on to Venice.”

 

“Well, Pietro! you must not fail to come and see us at the inn.”

 

The vetturino touched his hat, with the air of a man who would be very

sorry not to see them.

 

It was not long ere the glittering prow of the gondola pointed to Venice.

 

Before the travellers, rose ocean’s Cybele; springing from the waters,

like some fairy city, described to youthful ear by aged lip.

 

The fantastic dome of St. Mark—the Palladian churches—the columned

palaces—the sable gondolas shooting through the canals—made its aspect,

as is its reality, unique in the world.

 

“Beautiful, beautiful city!” said George, his eye lighting up as he spoke,

“thou dost indeed look a city of the heart—a resting place for a wearied

spirit. And our gondola, Henry, should be of burnished silver; and those

afar—so noiselessly cutting their way through the glassy surface—those

should be angels with golden wings; and, instead of an oar flashing

freely, a snowy wand of mercy should beat back the kissing billows.

 

“And Acmé, with her George, should sit on the crystal cushion of glory—and

we would wait expectant for you a long long time—and then you should join

us, Henry, with dear Emily.

 

“And Thompson should be with us, too, and recline on the steps of our bark

as he