A Love Story, by a Bushman by - (best mobile ebook reader .txt) 📕

“With all my heart,” replied George. “I am ready to leave it whenever

you please.”

On Sir Henry’s considering the best mode of conveyance, it occurred to

him, that some danger might arise from the malaria of the Pontine marshes;

and indeed, Rome and its environs were represented, at that time, as being

by no means free from this unwelcome visitant.

Sir Henry enquired if there were any English physicians resident in

Naples; and having heard a high eulogium passed by the waiter, on a Doctor

Pormont, “who attended the noble Consul, and my Lord Rimington,” ventured

to enclose his card, with a note, stating that he would be glad of five

minutes’ conversation with that gentleman.

In a short time, Doctor Pormont was introduced.

He was a tall man, with very marked features, and a deeply furrowed brow;

whose longitudinal folds, however, seemed rather the result of thought or

of study, than of age. The length of his nose was rivalled by the width of

his mouth. When he spoke, he displayed two rows of very clean and very

regular teeth, but which individually narrowed to a sharp point, and gave

his whole features a peculiarly unpleasing expression. His voice was

husky—his manners chilling—his converse that of a pedant.

Doctor Pormont was in many respects a singular man. From childhood, he had

been remarkable for stoicism of character. He possessed none of the weak

frailties, or gentle sympathies, which ordinarily belong to human nature.

His blood ran cold, like that of a fish. Never had he been known to lose

his equanimity of deportment.

A species of stern principle, however, governed his conduct; and his very

absence of feeling, made him an impartial physician, and one of the most

successful anatomists of the day.

What brought him to bustling, sunny Naples, was an unfathomed

mystery. Once there, he acquired wealth without anxiety, and patients

without friends.

Amongst the many anecdotes, current amongst his professional brethren, as

to the blunted feelings of Doctor Pormont, was one,—related of him when

he was lecturer at a popular London institution. A subject had been

placed on the anatomist’s table, for the purpose of allowing the lecturer,

to elucidate to the young students, the advantages of a post mortem

examination, in the determination of diseases. The lecturer dissected as

he proceeded, and was particularly clear and luminous. He even threw light

on the previous habits of the deceased, and showed at what period of life,

the germ of decay was probably forming.

A friend casually enquired, as they left the lecture room, whether the

subject had been a patient of his own.

“No!” replied the learned lecturer, “the body is that of my cousin and

schoolfellow, Harry Welborne. I attended his funeral, at some little

distance from town, a couple of days ago. My servant must have given

information to the exhumer. It is clear the body was removed from the

vault on the same evening.”

Sir Henry Delmé briefly explained to Doctor Pormont, his purpose in

sending for him. He stated that he was anxious to take his advice, as to

the best mode of proceeding to Rome, and also as to the best sleeping

place for the party;—that he had a wholesome dread of the malaria, but

that one of his party being a female, and another an invalid, he thought

it might be as well to sleep one night on the road. Regarding all this, he

deferred to the advice and superior judgment of the physician.

“Judgment,” said Doctor Pormont, “is two-fold. It may be defined, either

as the faculty of arriving at the knowledge of things, which may be

effected by the synthetic or analytic method; or it may be considered as

the just perception of them, when they are fully indagated.

“Our problem seems to resolve itself into two cases.

“First: does malaria exist to an unusual and alarming extent, on the route

you purpose taking?

“Secondly: the existence conceded—what is the best method to escape the

evil effects that might attend its inhibition into the human system?

“Let us apply the synthetic method to our first case.”

The Doctor prefaced his arguments, by a long statement, as to the gradual

commencement, and progress of malaria;—showed how the atmosphere,

polluted by exhalations of water, impregnated with decaying and putrified

vegetable matter, gave forth miasmata; which he described as being

particles of poison in a volatile state.

He alluded to the opinion held by many, that the disease owed its origin

to the ravages of the barbarians, who destroying the Roman farms and

villas, had made desert what were fertile regions.

He traced it from the time of the late Roman Emperors, to that of the

dominion of the Popes, whose legislative enactments to arrest the malady,

he failed not to comment on at length.

He explained the uncertainty which continued to exist, as to the

boundaries of the tract of country, in which the disease was rife; and

then plunged into his argument.

George, at this crisis, quietly took the opportunity of gliding from the

room. Sir Henry stretched his legs on an ottoman, and appeared immersed in

the study of a print—the Europa of Paul Veronese—which hung over the

mantelpiece.

“The Diario di Roma,” continued the Doctor, “received this day, decidedly

states that malaria is fearfully raging on the Neapolitan road. Pray

forgive me, if I occasionally glide into the vulgar error, of confounding

the disease itself, with the causes of that disease.

“On the other hand, a young collegian, who arrived in Naples from Rome

yesterday evening, states that he smoked and slept the whole journey, and

suffered no inconvenience whatever.

“Here two considerations present themselves. While sleep has been

considered by the best authorities, as predisposing the human frame to

infection, by opening the pores, relaxing the integuments, and retarding

the circulation of the blood; I cannot overlook the virtues of tobacco,

narcotic—aromatic—disinfecting—as we must grant them to be.

“Here then may I place in juxta-position, the testimony of the Diario, and

that of a young gentleman, half of his time asleep—the other half, under

the influence of the fumes of tobacco.

“Synthetically, I opine, that we may conclude that malaria does exist, and

to a great degree, in the Campagna di Roma. Will you now allow me, to

submit the question under dispute, to the analytic process? By many, in

the present age, though not by me, it is considered the more philosophical

mode of reasoning.”

“I am extremely obliged to you, Doctor,” said Sir Henry, in a quiet tone

of voice, “but you have raised the synthetic structure so admirably,

that I think that in this instance we may dispense with your analysis.

Pray proceed!”

“Having already shown, then—although your kindness has allowed me to do

so but partially—that malaria does indeed exist, it becomes me to show,

which is the best mode of avoiding its baneful effects.

“Injurious as are the miasmata in general, and fatal as are the effects of

that peculiar form in this country, termed malaria; the diseases they

engender, I apprehend to be rather endemic than epidemic.

“It would be difficult to determine, to what part of the Campagna, the

disease is at present confined; but I should certainly not advise you, to

sleep within the bounds of contagion, for the predisposing effects of

sleep I have already hinted at.

“Rapid travelling is, in my opinion, the best prophylactic I can prescribe,

as besides a certain exhilarating effect on the spirits, the swift passage

through the air, will remove any spiculæ of the marsh miasmata, which may

be hovering near your persons. Air, cheerfulness, and exercise, however,

predispose to, and are the results of sleep: and to an invalid especially,

sleep is indispensable.

“In Mr. Delmé‘s case, therefore, I would recommend a temporary halt.”

Dr. Pormont then gave an account of the length of the stages, the nature

of the post-house accommodations, and the probable degree of danger

attached to each site.

From all this, Delmé gathered, that malaria existed to some extent, on the

line of road they were to travel—that sleep would be necessary for

George—and that, on the whole, it would be most desirable to sleep at an

inn, situated at a hamlet between Molo di Gaetà and Terracina, somewhat

removed from the central point of danger.

But the truth is, that Sir Henry Delmé was disposed to consider Dr.

Pormont, with his pomposity, and wordy arguments, as a mere superficial

thinker; and he half laughed at himself, for having ever thought it

necessary to consult him. This class of men influence less than they

ought. Sensible persons are apt to set them down, as either fools or

pedants. Their very magniloquence condemns them; for, in the present day,

it seems an axiom, that simplicity and genius are invariably allied.

This rule, like most others, has its exceptions; and it would be well for

all of us, if we thought less of the manner, in which advice may be

delivered, and more of the matter which it may contain.

The Doctor rose to take leave,—Sir Henry witnessed his departure with

lively satisfaction; and, with the exception of enjoying a hearty laugh,

at his expense, with George and Acmé, ceased to recollect that such a

personage existed.

Delmé, however, had cause to remember that Doctor Pormont.

Were it not so, he would not have figured in these pages.

The last evening they were at Naples, they proceeded, as was their

custom, to the Mole; and there engaging a boat, directed it to be rowed

across the bay.

The volcano was more than usually brilliant, and the villages at its base,

appeared as clear as at noonday.

The water’s surface was not ruffled by a ripple. A bridal party was

following in the wake of their boat—and nuptial music was floating past

them in subdued cadence.

A nameless regret filled their minds, as they thought of the journey on

the coming morrow. They had been so happy in Naples. Could they hope to be

happier elsewhere?

It was midnight, when they returned to the hotel. As they neared its

portico, the round cold moon fell on the forms of the lazzaroni, who were

lying in groups round the pillars.

One of the party sprang to his feet, alarming the slumberers. The whole

of them rose with admirable cheerfulness—took off their hats

respectfully—and made way for the forestieri.

During the momentary pause that ensued, Acmé turned to the volcano, and

playfully waved her hand in token of farewell.

Her eyes filled with tears, and she clung heavily to George’s arm.

She was doomed never to look on that scene again.

Chapter III.

The Beginning of the End.

“Thou too, art gone! thou loved and lovely one,

Whom youth and youth’s affections bound to me.”

At an early hour, rich aureate hues yet streaking the east, our party were

duly seated in a roomy carriage of Angrasani’s, on their way to Rome.

They had hopes of arriving at the capital, in time to witness that unique

sight, the illumination of Saint Peter’s; a sight which few can remember,

without deeming its anticipation well worthy, to urge on the jaded

traveller, to his journey’s termination.

Who can forget the play of the fountains in front of the Vatican, the

music of whose descending water is most distinctly audible, although

crowds throng the wide and noble space.

Breathless—silent all—is the assembled multitude, as the clock of Saint

Peter’s gives its long expected signal.

Away! darkness is light! a fairy palace springs before us! its

beautiful proportions starting