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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!!

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


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."


A Love Story.

Chapter I.


"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


"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

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