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

“And together we would sail loving and happy through an amethystine sea.”

During their stay in Venice, George, in spite of his increasing languor,

continued to accompany his brother, in his visits to the various objects

of interest which the city can boast.

The motion of the gondola appeared to have a soothing influence on the

mind of the invalid.

He would recline on the cushions, and the fast flowing tears would course

down his wan cheeks.

These, however, were far from being a proof of suffering;—they were

evidently a relief to the surcharged spirit.

One evening, a little before sunset, they found themselves in the crowded

piazza of Saint Mark. The cafés were thronged with noble Venetians, come

to witness the evening parade of an Austrian regiment. The sounds of

martial music, swelled above the hum of the multitude; and few could

listen to those strains, without participating in some degree, in the

military enthusiasm of the hour.

But the brothers turned from the pageantry of war, as their eyes fell on

the emblems of Venice free—the minarets of St. Mark, with the horses of

Lysippus, a spoil from Byzantium—the flagless poles that once bore the

banners of three tributary states—the highly adorned azure clock—the

palaces of the proud Doges—where Faliero reigned—where Faliero

suffered:—these were before them.

Their steps mechanically turned to the beautiful Campanile.

George, leaning heavily on Sir Henry’s arm, succeeded in gaining the

summit: and they looked down from thence, on that wonderful city.

They saw the parade dismissed—they heard the bugle’s fitful blast

proclaim the hour of sunset. The richest hues of crimson and of gold,

tinted the opposite heavens; while on those waters, over which the

gondolas were swiftly gliding, quivered another city, the magic reflection

of the one beneath them.

They gazed on the scene in silence, till the grey twilight came on.

“Now, George! it is getting late,” said Sir Henry. “I wonder whether we

could find some old mariner, who could give us a chaunt from Tasso?”

Descending from the Campanile, Sir Henry made enquiries on the quay, and

with some difficulty found gondoliers, who could still recite from their

favourite bard.

Engaging a couple of boats, and placing a singer in each, the brothers

were rowed down the Canale Giudecca—skirted many of the small islands,

studding the lagoons; and proceeded towards the Adriatic.

Gradually the boats parted company, and just as Sir Henry was about to

speak, thinking there might be a mistake as to the directions; the

gondolier in the other boat commenced his song,—its deep bass mellowed by

distance, and the intervening waves. The sound was electric.

It was so exquisitely appropriate to the scene, and harmonised so

admirably, with the associations which Venice is apt to awaken, that one

longed to be able to embody that fleeting sound—to renew its magic

influence in after years. The pen may depict man’s stormy feelings: the

sensitive caprice of woman:—the most vivid tints may be imitated on the

glowing canvas:—the inspired marble may realise our every idea of the

beauty of form:—a scroll may give us at will, the divine inspiration, of

Handel:—but there are sounds, as there are subtle thoughts, which, away

from the scenes, where they have charmed us, can never delight us more.

It was not until the second boatman answered the song, that the brothers

felt how little the charm lay, in the voice of the gondolier, and that,

heard nearer, the sounds were harsh and inharmonious.

They recited the death of Clorinda; the one renewing the stanza, whenever

there was a momentary forgetfulness on the part of the other.

The clock of St. Mark had struck twelve, before the travellers had reached

the hotel. George had not complained of fatigue, during a day which even

Sir Henry thought a trying one; and the latter was willing to hope that

his strength was now increasing.

Their first design had been to proceed though Switzerland, resting for

some time at Geneva. Their plans were now changed, and Sir Henry Belme

determined, that their homeward route should be through the Tyrol and

Bavaria, and eventually down the Rhine.

He considered that the water carriage, and the very scenes themselves,

might prove beneficial to the invalid.

Thompson was sent over to Mestré, to inform Pietro; and they prepared to

take their departure.

“You have been better in Venice,” said Sir Henry, as they entered the

gondola, that was to bear them from the city. “God grant that you may long

remain so!”

George shook his head doubtingly.

“My illness, Henry, is not of the frame alone, although that is fragile

and shattered.

“The body lingers on without suffering; but the mind—a very bright sword

in a worthless sheath—is forcing its way through. Some feelings must

remain to the last—gratitude to you—love to dear Emily! Acmé, wife of my

bosom! when may I join you?”

Chapter IX.

Inspruck.

“Oh there is sweetness in the mountain air,

And life, that bloated ease can never hope to share.”

Inspruck! a thousand recollections flash across us, as we pronounce the

word!

We were there at a memorable period; when the body of the hero of the

Tyrol—the brave, the simple-minded Anderl Hofer—was removed from Mantua,

where he so nobly met a patriot’s death, to the capital of the country,

which he had so gallantly defended.

The event was one, that could not fail to be impressive; and to us it was

doubly so, for that very period formed an epoch in our lives.

We had lost! we had suffered! we had mourned! Our mind’s strength was

shook. Ordinary remedies were worse than futile.

We threw ourselves into the heart of the Tyrol, and became resigned if

not happy.

Romantic country! did not duty whisper otherwise, how would we fly to thy

rugged mountains, and find in the kindly virtues of thine inhabitants,

wherewithal to banish misanthropy, and it may be purchase oblivion.

Noble land! where the chief in his hall—the peasant in his hut—alike

open their arms with sheltering hospitality, to welcome the

stranger—where kindness springs from the heart, and dreams not of sordid

gain—where courtesy attends superior rank, without question, but without

debasement—where the men are valiant, the women virtuous—where it needed

but a few home-spun heroes—an innkeeper and a friar—to rouse up to arms

an entire population, and in a brief space to drive back the Gallic

foeman! Oh! how do we revert with choking sense of gratitude, to the years

we have spent in thy bosom!

Oh! would that we were again treading the mountain’s summit—the rifle

our comrade—and a rude countryman, our guide and our companion.

In vain! in vain! the net of circumstance is over us!

We may struggle! but cannot escape from its close meshes.

We have said that we were at Inspruck at this period.

It was our purpose, on the following morning, to take our departure.

With renewed health, and nerves rebraced, we hoped to combat successfully,

a world that had already stung us.

There was a group near the golden-roofed palace, that attracted our

attention. It consisted of a father and his five sons.

They were dressed in the costume of the country; wearing a tapering

hat, with black ribbons and feather—a short green jerkin—a red vest

surmounted by broad green braces—and short boots tightly laced to

the ancle.

They formed a picture of free mountaineers.

We left our lodging, and passed them irresolutely twice or thrice.

The old man took off his hat to the stranger.

“Sir! I am of Sand, in Passeyer.

“Anderl Hofer was my schoolfellow; and these are my boys, whom I have

brought to see all that remains of him. Oh! Sir! they did not conquer him,

although the murderers shot him on the bastion; but, as he wrote to

Pulher—his friend and mine—it was indeed ‘in the name, and by the help

of the Lord, that he undertook the voyage,’”

We paced through the city sorrowfully. It was night, as we passed by the

church of the Holy Cross.

Solemn music there arrested our footsteps; and we remembered, that high

mass would that night be performed, for the soul of the deceased patriot.

We entered, and drew near the mausoleum of Maximilian the First:—leaning

against a colossal statue in bronze, and fixing our eyes on a bas relief

on the tomb: one of twenty-four tablets, wrought from Carrara’s whitest

marble, by the unrivalled hand of Colin of Malines!

One blaze of glory enveloped the grand altar:—vapours of incense floated

above:—and the music! oh it went to the soul!

Down! down knelt the assembled throng!

Our mind had been previously attuned to melancholy; it now reeled under

its oppression.

We looked around with tearful eye. Old Theodoric of the Goths seemed to

frown from his pedestal.

We turned to the statue against which we had leant.

It was that of a youthful and sinewy warrior.

We read its inscription.

Artur, Konig Von England

“Ah! hast thou too thy representative, my country?”

We looked around once more.

The congregation were prostrate before the mysterious Host; and we alone

stood up, gazing with profound awe and reverence on the mystic rite.

The rough caps of the women almost hid their fair brows. In the upturned

features of the men, what a manly, yet what a devout expression reigned!

Melodiously did the strains proceed from the brazen-balustraded

orchestra; while sweet young girls smiled in the chapel of silver, as

they turned to Heaven their deeply-fringed eyes, and invoked pardon for

their sins.

Alas! alas! that such as these should err, even in thought! that our

feelings should so often mislead us,—that our very refinement, should

bring temptation in its train,—and our fervent enthusiasm, but too

frequently terminate in vice and crime!

Our whole soul was unmanned! and well do we remember the morbid prayer,

that we that night offered to the throne of mercy.

“Pity us! pity us! Creator of all!

“With thousands around, who love—who reverence—whose hearts, in unison

with ours, tremble at death, yet sigh for eternity;—who gaze with eye

aspiring, although dazzled—as, the curtain of futurity uplifted, fancy

revels in the glorious visions of beatitude:—even here, oh God! hear our

prayer and pity us!

“We are moulded, though faintly, in an angel’s form. Endow us with an

angel’s principles. For ever hush the impure swellings of passion! lull

the stormy tide of contending emotions! let not circumstances overwhelm!

“Receive our past griefs: the griefs of manhood, engrafted on youth; accept

these tears, falling fast and bitterly! take them as past atonement,—as

mute witnesses that we feel:—that reason slumbers not, although passion

may mislead:—that gilded temptation may overcome, and gorgeous pleasure

intoxicate:—but that sincere repentance, and bitter remorse, are

visitants too.

“Oh guide and pity us!”

A cheerless dawn was breaking, and a thick damp mist was lazily hanging on

the water’s surface, as our travellers waved the hand to Venice.

“Fare thee well!” said George, as he rose in the gondola to catch a last

glimpse of the Piazzetta, “sea girt city! decayed memorial of patrician

splendour, and plebeian debasement! of national glory, blended with

individual degradation!—fallen art thou, but fair! It was not with

freshness of heart, I reached thee:—I dwelt not in thee, with that

jocund spirit, whose every working or gives the lip a smile, or moistens

the eye of feeling with a tear.

“Sad were my emotions! but sadder still, as I recede from thy shores, bound

on a distant pilgrimage. Acmé! dear Acmé! would