A Bushman.

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It so happened, that they slept one night in a retired convent. Their
hardships latterly had been great, and the complaints of Achilles had been
unceasing in consequence. In the morning Carl rose, and found that his
clothes and arms had vanished, and that his friend was absent also.

Carl remained long enough to satisfy himself, that his friend was the
culprit; and then turned towards the sea coast, determined at all hazards
to leave Greece.

He succeeded in reaching Missolonghi, in the early part of 1823, shortly
after the death of Marco Botzaris - being then in a state of perfect
destitution, and his mental sufferings greatly aggravated by the
consciousness, that he had induced so many of his comrades to sacrifice
their lives and prospects in an unworthy cause.

At Missolonghi, where Mavrocordato reigned supreme, he was grudged the
paltry ration of a Suliote soldier, and might have died of starvation, had
it not been for the timely interposition of a stranger.

Moved by that stranger's persuasion, Carl consented to form one of a
contemplated expedition against Lepanto; and, had his illustrious
benefactor lived, might have found a steady friend.

As it was, he waited not to hear the funeral oration, delivered by
Spiridion Tricoupi; but was on the deck of the vessel that was to bear him
homewards, and shed tears of mingled grief, admiration, and gratitude, as
thirty-seven minute guns, fired from the battery, told Greece and Carl
Obers, that they had lost Byron, their best friend.

Carl reached Germany, a wiser man than when he left it.

He found his father dead, and he came into possession of his small
patrimony; but felt greatly, as all men do who are suddenly removed from
active pursuits, the want of regular and constant employment.

He was glad to renew his intercourse with his old University; and found
himself greatly looked up to by the students, who were never wearied with
listening to his accounts of the Morea, and of the privations he had there

We need hardly inform our readers, that Carl Obers was one of the
pedestrian students at Wallensee, and was indeed the identical narrator of
the Vienna story.

We left George and his brother, on the shore below the priest's
cottage. The one was laid cold and motionless - the other wished that
_he_ also were so.

Immediately on Delmé's falling, the young guide alarmed the
priest - brought him down to the spot - pointed to the brothers - threw
himself into the boat - and paddled swiftly across the lake, to alarm the
guests at the inn.

It was with feelings of deep commiseration, that Carl looked on the two
brothers. He was the only person present, whose time was comparatively his
own; he spoke English, although imperfectly; and he owed a deep debt of
gratitude to an Englishman.

These circumstances seemed to point him out, as the proper person to
attend to the wants of the unfortunate traveller; and Carl Obers mentally
determined, that he would not leave Delmé, as long as he had it in his
power to befriend him, Sir Henry Delmé was completely unmanned by his
bereavement. He had been little prepared for such a severe loss; although
it is more than probable, that George's life had long been hanging on a
thread, which a single moment might snap.

The medical men had been singularly sanguine in his case, for it is rarely
that disease of the heart attacks one so young; but it now seemed evident,
that even had not anxiety of mind, and great constitutional irritability,
hastened the fatal result, that poor George could never have hoped to have
survived to a ripe old age.

There was much in his character at any time, to endear him to an only
brother. As it was, Delmé had seen George under such trying
circumstances - had entered so fully into his feelings and sufferings - that
this abrupt termination to his brother's sorrows, appeared to Sir Henry
Delmé, to bring with it a sable pall, that enveloped in darkness his own
future life and prospects.

The remains of poor George were placed in a small room, communicating with
one intended for Sir Henry.

Here Delmé shut himself up, brooding over his loss, and permitting no one
to intrude on his privacy.

Carl had offered his services, which were gratefully accepted, in making
the necessary arrangements for his brother's obsequies; and Sir Henry, in
the solitude of the dead man's chamber, could give free scope to a flood
of bitter recollections.

It may be, that those silent hours of agony, when the brother looked
fixedly on that moveless face, and implored the departed spirit to breathe
its dread and awful secret, were not without their improving tendency; for
haggard and wan as was the mourner's aspect, there was no outward sign of
quivering, even as he saw the rude coffin lowered, and as fell on his ear,
the creaking of cords, and that harsh jarring sound, to which there is
nothing parallel on earth, the heavy clods falling on the coffin lid.

The general arrangements had been simple; but Carl's directions had been
given in such a sympathising spirit, that they could not be otherwise than

About the church-yard itself, there is nothing very striking. It is
formed round a small knoll, on the summit of which stands a sarcophagus
literally buried in ivy.

Beneath this, is the vault of the baronial family, that for centuries
swayed the destinies of the little hamlet; but which family has been
extinct for some years.

Round it are grouped the humbler osiered graves; over which, in lieu of
tomb stones, are placed large black iron crosses, ornamented with brass,
and bearing the simple initials of the bygone dead.

Even Delmé, with all his ancestral pride, felt that George "slept well."

It is true no leaden coffin enclosed his relics, nor did the murky vault
of his ancestors, open with creaking hinge to receive another of the race.
No escutcheon darkened the porch whence they bore him; and no long train
of mourners followed his remains to their last home.

But there was something in the quiet of the spot, that seemed to Delmé in
harmony with his history; and to promise, that a sorrowless world had
already opened, on one who had loved so truly, and felt so deeply in this.

Sir Henry returned to the inn, and darkened his chamber.

He had not the heart to prosecute his journey, nor to leave the spot,
which held what was to him so dear.

Carl Obers attempted to combat his despondency; but observing how useless
were his arguments, wisely allowed his grief to take its course.

There was one point, in which Delmé was decidedly wrong.

He could not bring himself, to communicate their loss to his sister.

Carl pressed this duty frequently on him, but was always met by the
same reply.

"No! no! how can I inflict such a pang?"

It is possible the intelligence might have been very long in reaching
England, had it not been for a providential circumstance, that occurred
shortly after George's funeral.

A carriage, whose style and appointments bespoke it English, changed
horses at the inn at Wallensee. The courier, while ordering the relays,
had heard George's story; and touching his hat to the inmates of the
vehicle, retailed it with natural pathos.

On hearing the name of Delmé, the lady was visibly affected. She was
an old friend of the family; and as Melicent Dashwood, had known
George as a boy.

It was not without emotion, that she heard of one so young, and to her so
familiar, being thus prematurely called to his last account.

The lady and her husband alighted, and sending up their cards, begged to
see the mourner.

The message was delivered; but Delmé, without comment or enquiry, at once
declined the offer; and it was thought better not to persist. They were
too deeply interested, however, not to attempt to be of use. They saw Carl
and Thompson, - satisfied themselves that Sir Henry was in friendly hands;
and thanking the student with warmth and sincerity, for his attention to
the sufferer, exacted a promise, that he would not leave him, as long as
he could in any way be useful.

The husband and wife prepared to continue their journey; but not before
the former had left his address in Florence, with directions to Carl to
write immediately, in case he required the assistance of a friend; and the
latter had written a long letter to Mrs. Glenallan, in which she broke as
delicately as she could, the melancholy and unlooked-for tidings.

Chapter XII

The Letter.

"And from a foreign shore
Well to that heart might _hers_ these absent greetings pour."

Three weeks had elapsed since George's death.

It would be difficult to depict satisfactorily, the state of Sir Henry
Delmé's mind during that period. The pride of life appeared crushed within
him. He rarely took exercise, and when he did, his step was slow, and his
gait tottering.

That one terrible loss was ever present to his mind; and yet his
imagination, as if disconnected with his feelings, or his memory, was
constantly running riot over varying scenes of death, and conjuring up
revolting pictures of putrescence and decay.

A black pall, and an odour of corruption, seemed to commingle with each
quick-springing fantasy; and Delmé would start with affright from his own
morbid conceptions, as he found himself involuntarily dwelling on the
waxen rigidity of death, - following the white worm in its unseemly
wanderings, - and finally stripping the frail and disgusting coat from the
disjointed skeleton.

Sir Henry Delmé had in truth gone through arduous and trying scenes.

The very circumstance that he had to conceal his own feelings, and
support George through his deeper trials, made the present reaction the
more to be dreaded.

Certain are we, that trials such as his, are frequently the prevailing
causes, of moral and intellectual insanity. Fortunately, Sir Henry was
endued with a firm mind, and with nerves of great power of endurance.

One morning, at an early hour, Thompson brought in a letter.

It was from Emily Delmé; and as Sir Henry noted the familiar address, and
the broad black edge, which told that the news of his brother's death had
reached his sister, he cast it from him with a feeling akin to pain.

The next moment, however, he sprang from the bed, threw open the shutters,
and commenced reading its contents.


My own dear brother,

My heart bleeds for you! But yesterday, we received the sad, sad letter.
To-day, although blinded with tears, I implore you to remember, that you
have not lost your all! Our bereavement has been great! our loss heavy
indeed. But if a link in the family love-chain be broken - shall not the
remaining ones cling to each other the closer?

My aunt is heart-broken. Clarendon, kind as he is, did not know our
George! Alas! that he should be ours no more!

My only brother! dwell not with strangers! A sister's arms are ready to
clasp you: - a sister's sympathy must lighten the load of your sufferings.

Think of your conduct! your devotedness! Should not these comfort you?

Did you not love and cherish him? did you not - happier than I - soothe his
last days? were you not present to the end?

From this moment, I shall count each hour that divides us.

On my knees both night and morning, will I pray the Almighty God, who has
chastened us, to protect my brother in his travels by sea and land.

May we be spared, my dearest Henry, to pray together, that HE may bestow
on us present resignation, and make us duly thankful for blessings which
still are ours.

Your affectionate sister,


Delmé read the letter with tearless eye. For some time he leant his head
on his hand, and thought of his sister, and of the dead.

He shook, and laughed wildly, as he beat his hand convulsively
against the wall.

Carl Obers and Thompson held him down, while this strong paroxysm lasted.

His sobs became fainter, and he sunk into a placid slumber. The student
watched anxiously by his side. He awoke; called for Emily's letter; and as
he read it once more, the tears coursed down his sunken cheeks.

Ah! what a relief to the excited man, is the fall of tears.

It would seem as if the very feelings, benumbed and congealed as they may
hitherto have been, were suddenly dissolving under some happier influence,
and that, - with the external sign - the weakness and pliability of
childhood - we were magically regaining its singleness of feeling, and its
gentleness of heart.

Sir Henry swerved no more from the path of manly duty. He saw the
vetturino, and arranged his departure for the morrow. On that evening, he
took Carl's arm, and sauntered through the village church-yard.

Already seemed it, that the sods had taken root over George's grave.

The interstices of the turf were hidden; - a white paper basket, which
still held some flowers, had been suspended by some kind stranger hand
over the grave; - from it had dropped a wreath of yellow amaranths.

There was great repose in the scene. The birds appeared to chirp softly
and cautiously; - the tufts of grass, as they bowed their heads against the
monumental crosses, seemed careful not to rustle too drearily.

Sir Henry's sleep was more placid, on _that_, his last night at Wallensee,
than it had been for many a night before.

* * * * *

Acting up to his original design, Delmé passed through the capitals of
Bavaria and Wurtemburg; and quickly traversing the picturesque country
round Heilbron, reached the romantic Heidelberg, washed by the Neckar.

The student, as might be expected, did not arrive at his old University,
with feelings of indifference; but he insisted, previous to visiting his
college companions, on showing Sir Henry the objects of interest.

The two friends, for such they might now be styled, walked towards the
castle, arm in arm; and stood on the terrace, adorned with headless
statues, and backed by a part of the mouldering ruin, half hid by the
thick ivy.

They looked down on the many winding river, murmuringly gliding through
its vine covered banks.

Beyond this, stretched a wide expanse of country; while beneath them
lay the town of Heidelberg - the blue smoke hanging over it like a
magic diadem.

"Here, here!" said Carl Obers, as he gazed on the scene, with mournful
sensations, "_here_ were my youthful visions conceived and
embodied - _here_ did I form vows, to break the bonds of enslaved
mankind - _here_ did I dream of grateful thousands, standing erect for the
first time as free men - _here_ did I brood over, the possible happiness of
my fellow men, and in attempting to realise it, have wrecked my own."

"My kind friend!" replied Delmé, "your error, if it be such, has been
of the head, and not the heart. It is one, natural to your age and your
country. Far from being irreparable, it is possible it may have taught
you a lesson, that may ultimately greatly benefit you. This is the
first time we have conversed regarding your prospects. What are your
present views?"

"I have none. My friends regard me as one, who has improvidently thrown
away his chance of advancement. My knowledge of any _one_ branch of
science is so superficial, that this precludes my ever hoping to succeed
in a learned profession. I cannot enter the military service in my own
country, without commencing in the lowest grade. This I can hardly bring
my mind to."

"What would you say to the Hanoverian army?" replied Delmé.

"I would say," rejoined Carl: "for I see through your kind motive in
asking, that I esteem myself fortunate, if I have been in any way useful
to you; but that I cannot, and ought not, to think, of accepting a favour
at your hands."

Sir Henry said no more at that time: and they reached the inn in silence.

Delmé retired for the night. Carl Obers sought his old chums; and,
exhilarated by his meershaum, and the excellent beer - rivalling the famous
Lubeck beer, sent to Martin Luther, during his trial, by the Elector of
Saxony - triumphantly placed "young Germany" at the head of nations.

Early the following morning, they were again en route.

They passed through Manheim, where the Rhine and Neckar meet, - through
Erpach, - through Darmstadt, that cleanest of Continental towns, - and
finally reached Frankfort-on-the-Maine, where it was agreed that Sir Henry
and Thompson were to part from their travelling companions.

Sir Henry in his distress of mind, felt that theirs was not a casual
farewell. On reaching the quay, he pressed the student's hand with
grateful warmth, but dared not trust to words.

On the deck of the steamer, assisting Thompson to arrange the
portmanteaux, stood Pietro Molini.

The natural gaiety of the old driver had received a considerable check at
George's death.

He could not now meet Sir Henry, without an embarrassment of manner; and
even in his intercourse with Thompson, his former jocularity seemed to
have deserted him.

"Good bye, Pietro!" said Delmé, extending his hand. "I trust we may one
day or other meet again."

The vetturino grasped it, - his colour went and came, - he looked down at
his whip, - then felt in his vest for his pipe, As he saw Delmé turn
towards the poop, and as Thompson warned him it was time to leave the
vessel, - his feelings fairly gave way.

He threw his arms round the Englishman's neck and blubbered like a child.

We have elsewhere detailed the luckless end of the vetturino.

As for Carl Obers, that zealous patriot; the last we heard of him, was
that he was holding a commission in the Hanoverian Jägers, obtained for
him by Sir Henry's intervention. He was at that period, in high favour
with that liberal monarch, King Ernest.

Chapter XIII.


"'Tis sweet to hear the watchdog's honest bark
Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home,
'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark
Our coming, and look brighter when we come."

Embarking on its tributary stream, Delmé reached the Rhine - passed through
the land of snug Treckschut, and wooden-shoed housemaid - and arrived at
Rotterdam, whence he purposed sailing for England.

To that river, pay we no passing tribute! The Rhine - with breast of
pride - laving fertile vineyards, cities of picturesque beauty,
beetling crags, and majestic ruins; hath found its bard to hymn an
eulogy, in matchless strains, which will be co-existent, with the
language they adorn.

Sir Henry was once more on the wide sea. Where were they who were his
companions when his vessel last rode it? where the young bride breathing
her devotion? where the youthful husband whispering his love?

The sea yet glistened like a chrysolite; the waves yet laughed in the
playful sunbeams - the bright-eyed gull yet dipped his wing in the billow,
fearless as heretofore; - where was the one, who from that text had deduced
so fair a moral?

Sir Henry wished not to dwell on the thought, but as it flashed across
him, his features quivered, and his brow darkened.

He threw himself into the chaise which was to bear him to his home, with
alternate emotions of bitterness and despair!

Hurrah for merry England! Click, clack! click, clack! thus cheerily
let us roll!

Great are the joys of an English valet, freshly emancipated from
sauerkraut, and the horrors of silence!

Sweet is purl, and sonorous is an English oath. Bright is the steel,
arming each clattering hoof! Leather strap and shining buckle, replace
musty rope and ponderous knot! The carriage is easier than a
Landgravine's, - the horses more sleek, - the driver as civil, - the road is
like a bowling green, - the axletree and under-spring, of Collinge's latest
patent. But the heart! the heart! _that_ may be sad still.

Delmé's voyage and journey were alike a blank. On the ocean, breeze
followed calm; - on the river, ship succeeded ship; - on the road, house and
tree were passed, and house and tree again presented themselves. He drew
his cap over his eyes, and his arms continued folded.

His first moment of full consciousness, was as a sharp turn, followed by a
sudden pause, brought him in front of the lodge at Delmé.

On the two moss-grown pillars, reposed the well known crest of his family.
The porter's daughter, George's friend, issued from the lodge, and threw
open the iron gates.

She was dressed in black. How this recalled his loss.

"My dear - dear - dear brother!"

Emily bounded to his embrace, and her cheek fell on his shoulder. He felt
the warm tear trickle on his cheek. He clasped her waist, - gazed on her
pallid brow, - and held her lip to his.

How it trembled from her emotion!

"My own brother! how pale - how ill you look!"

"Emily! my sister! I have something yet left me on earth! and my worthy
kind aunt, too!"

He kissed Mrs. Glenallan's forehead, and tried to soothe her. She pressed
her handkerchief to her eyes, and checked her tears; but continued to sob,
with the deep measured sob of age.

How mournful, yet how consoling, is the first family meeting, after death
has swept away one of its members! How the presence of each, calls up
sorrow, and yet assists to repress it, - awakes remembrances full of grief,
yet brings to life indefinable hopes, that rob that grief of its most
poignant sting! The very garb of woe, whose mournful effect is felt to the
full, only when each one sees it worn by the other - the very garb
paralyses, and brings impressively before us, the awful truth, that for
our loss, in this world, there is no remedy. How holy, how chaste is the
affection, which we feel disposed to lavish, on those who are left us.

Surely if there be a guardian spirit, which deigns to flit through this
wayward world, to cheer the stricken breast, and purify feelings, whose
every chord vibrates to the touch of woe; surely such presides, and throws
a sunny halo, on the group, that blood has united - on which family love
has shed its genial influence - and of which, each member, albeit bowed
down by sympathetic grief, attempts to lift his drooping head, and to
others open some source of comfort, which to the kind speaker, is
inefficient and valueless indeed!

For many months, Sir Henry continued to reside with his family. Clarendon
Gage was a constant visitor, and companion to the brother and sister in
their daily walks and rides.

He had never met poor George, but loved Emily so well, that he could not
but sympathise in their heavy loss; and as Delmé noted this quiet
sympathy, he felt deeply thankful to Providence, for the fair prospect of
the happiness, that awaited his sister.

Winter passed away. The fragile snowdrop, offspring of a night - the
mute herald of a coming and welcome guest - might be seen peering
beneath the gnarled oak, or enlivening the emerald circle beneath the
wide-spreading elm.

Spring too glided by, and another messenger came. The migratory swallow,
returned from foreign travel, sought the ancient gable, and rejoicing in
safety, commenced building a home. At twilight's hour might she be seen,
unscared by the truant's stone, repairing to the placid pool - skimming
over its glassy surface, in rapid circle and with humid wing - and
returning in triumph, bearing wherewithal to build her nest.

Summer too went by; and as the leaves of Autumn rustled at his feet, Delmé
started, as he felt that the sting and poignancy of his grief was gone. It
was with something like reproach, that he did so. There is a dignity in
grief - a pride in perpetuating it - and his had been no common affliction.

It is a trite, but true remark, that time scatters our sorrows, as it
scatters our joys.

The heat of fever and the delirium of love, have their gradations; and so
has grief. The impetuous throbbing of the pulse abates; - the influence of
years makes us remember the extravagance of passion, with something
approaching to a smile; - and Time - mysterious Time - wounding, but healing
all, leads us to look at past bereavements, as through a darkened glass.

We do not forget; but our memory is as a dream, which awoke us in terror,
but over which we have slept. The outline is still present, but the
fearful details, which in the darkness of the hour, and the freshness of
conception, so scared and alarmed us, - these have vanished with the night.

Emily's wedding day drew nigh, and the faces of the household once more
looked bright and cheerful.

Chapter XIV.

A Wedding.

"'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,
Since others it has ceased to move,
But though I may not be beloved,
Still let me love!"

"I saw her but a moment,
Yet methinks I see her now,
With a wreath of orange blossoms

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