"Woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps well."
"The Niobe of nations! there she stands,Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe;An empty urn within her wither'd hands,Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago.The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now;The very sepulchres lie tenantlessOf their heroic dwellers; dost thou flow,Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness?Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress."
Undertakers! not one word shall henceforth pass our lips in your dispraise!
An useful and meritorious tribe are you!
What! though sleek and rosy cheeked, you seem to have little in common with the wreck of our hopes?
What! if our ears be shocked by profane jests on the weight of your burden, as you bear away from the accustomed mansion, whatwasits light and its load star--but whatis--pent up in your dark, narrow tenement, but--
"A heap,To make men tremble, that never weep."
What! if our swimming eye--as we follow those dear--dear remains to their last lone resting place--glance on the heartless myrmidons, who salute the passer by with nods of recognition, and smiles of indifference?
What! if, returning homewards--choked with bitter recollections, which rise fantastic, quick, and ill-defined--the very ghosts of departed scenes and years--what if we start as we then perceive you--lightsome of heart, and glib of speech--clustered and smirking, on that roof of nodding plumes--neath which, one short hour since--lay what was dearest to us on earth?
Let us not heed these things! for--light as is the task to traders in death's dark trappings; painful and soul-subduing are those withering details to the grieving and heart-struck mourner!
We left George lying half insensible by the side of his dead wife.
Sir Henry and Thompson carried him to the apartment of the former, and while Thompson hung over his master, attempting to restore consciousness--Delmé had a short conference with Doctor Pormont as to their ulterior proceedings.
Doctor Pormont--as might be expected--enjoined the greatest promptitude, and recommended that poor Acmé's remains, should be consigned to the burial place of the hamlet.
George's objections to this, however, as soon as he was well enough to comprehend what was going forward, seemed quite insurmountable; and after Sir Henry had sought the place by moonlight, and found it wild and open, with goats browsing on the unpicturesque graves, and with nothing to mark the sanctity of the spot, save a glaring painted picture of the Virgin, his own prejudices became enlisted, and he consented to proceed to Rome.
After this decision was made, he found it utterly impossible, to procure a separate conveyance for the corpse; and was equally unsuccessful in his attempt to procure that--which from being a common want, he had been disposed to consider of every day attainment--a coffin.
While his brother made what arrangements he best might, poor George returned to the chamber of death, and gazed long and fixedly--with the despair of the widower--on those hushed familiar features.
Her hair was now turned back, and was bound with white ribbon, and festooned with some of the very water lilies that Acmé had admired. A snow-white wreath bound her brow. It was formed of the white convolvulus. We have said the features were familiar; but oh! how different! The yellow waxen hue--the heavy stiffened lid--how they affected George Delmé, who had never looked on death before!
First he would gaze with stupid awe--then turn to the window, and attempt to repress his sobs--return again--and refuse to credit his bereavement. Surely the hand moved? No! of its free will shall it never move more! The eye! was there not a slight convulsion in that long dark lash?
No! over it may crawl the busy fly, and creep the destructive worm, without let, and without hindrance!
No finger shall be raised in its behalf--that lid shall remain closed and passive! The insect and the reptile shall extend their wanderings over the smooth cheek, and revel on the lips, whose red once rivalled that of the Indian shell.
Moveless! moveless shall all be!
The long--long night wore on.
An Italian sunrise was gilding the heavens.
Acmé was never to see a sunrise more; and even this reflection--trite as it may seem, occurring to one, who had watched through the night, by the side of the dead--even this reflection, convulsed again the haggard features of the mourner.
Delmé had made the requisite arrangements during the night, for their early departure.
Just previous to the carriage being announced, he led George out of the room; whilst the physician, aided by the women, took such precautions as the heat of the climate rendered necessary.
Linen cloths, steeped in a solution of chlorate of lime, were closely wound round the body--a rude couch was placed in the inside of the carriage, which was supported by the two seats--and the carriage itself was darkened.
These preparations concluded--and having parted with Doctor Pormont---whose attentions, in spite of his freezing manner, had been very great--the brothers commenced their painful task.
George knelt at the head of the corpse--ejaculated one short fervent prayer--and then, assisted by his brother, bore it in his arms to the vehicle.
The Italian peasants, with rare delicacy, witnessed the scene from the windows of the inn, but did not intrude their presence.
The body was placed crosswise in the carriage. George sat next the corpse. Delmé sat opposite, regarding his brother with anxious eye.
Most distressing was that silent journey! It made an impression on Sir Henry's mind, that no after events could ever efface; and yet it had already been his lot, to witness many scenes of horror, and ride over fields of blood.
We have said it was a silent journey. George's despair was too deep for words.
The first motion of the carriage affected the position of the corpse. George put one arm round it, and kept it immoveable. Sometimes, his scalding tears would fall on that cold face, whose outline yet preserved its beautiful roundness.
It appeared to Sir Henry, that he had never seen life and death, so closely and painfully contrasted. There sat his brother, in the full energies of manhood and despair; his features convulsed--his frame quivering--his sobs frequent--his pulse quick and disturbed.
There lay extended his mistress--cold--colourless--silent--unimpassioned. There was life in the breeze that played on her raven tresses--grim death was enthroned on the face those tresses swept.
Not that decay's finger had yet really assailed it; but one of the peculiar properties of the preservative used by Doctor Pormont, is its pervading sepulchral odour.
They reached Rome; and the consummation of their task drew nigh.
Pass we over the husband's last earthly farewell. Pass we over that subduing scene, in which Henry assisted George to sever long ringlets, and rob the cold finger, of affection's dearest pledge.
Alas! these might be retained as the legacy of love.
They were useless as love's memento. Memory, the faithful mirror, forbade the relic gatherer ever to forget!
Would you know where Acmé reposes?
A beautiful burial ground looks towards Rome. It is on a gentle declivity leaning to the south-east, and situated between Mount Aventine and the Monte Testaccio.
Its avenue is lined with high bushes of marsh roses; and the cemetery itself, is divided into three rude and impressive terraces.
Theresleeps--in a modest nook, surmounted by the wall-flower, and by creeping ivy, and by many-coloured shrubs, and by one simple yellow flower, of very peculiar and rare fragrance; a type, as the author of these pages deemed, of the wonderful etherialised genius of the man--theresleeps, as posterity will judge him, the first of the poets of the age we live in--Percy Bysshe Shelley! There too, moulders that wonderful boy author--John Keats.
Who can pass his grave, and read that bitter inscription, dictated on his deathbed, by the heart-broken enthusiast, without the liveliest emotion?
"Here lies one, whose name was writ in water. February 4th, 1821."
The ancient wall of Rome, crowns the ridge of the slope we have described. Above it, stands the pyramid of Caius Cæstius, constructed some twenty centuries since.
Immediately beneath it, in a line with a round tower buried with ivy, and near the vault of our beautiful countrywoman, Miss Bathurst, who was thrown from her horse and drowned in the Tiber, may be seen a sarcophagus of rough granite, surmounted by a black marble slab.
Luxuriant with wild flowers, and studded even in the winter season, with daisies and violets, the sides of the tomb are now almost concealed. Over the slab, one rose tree gracefully droops.
When seen in the dew of the morning, when the cups of the roses are full, and crystal drops, distilling from leaves and flowers, are slowly trickling on the dark stone, you might think that inanimate nature was weeping for the doom of beauty.
Only one word is engraved on that slab. Should you visit Rome, and read it, recollect this story.
That word is--"Acmé!"
Sir Henry and his brother remained at Rome nearly a month.
The former, with hopes that the exertion might be useful, in distracting George from the constant contemplation of his loss, plunged at once into the sight-seeing of "the eternal city."
Their days were busily passed--in visiting the classic sites of Rome and its neighbourhood--in wandering through the churches and convents--and loitering through the long galleries of the Vatican.
Delmé, fearfully looking back on the scenes that had occurred in Malta, was apprehensive, that George's despair might lead to some violent outbreak of feeling; and that mind and body might sink simultaneously.
It was not so.
That heavy infliction appeared to bear with it a torpedo-like power. The first blow, abrupt and stunning, had paralysed. Afterwards, it seemed to carry with it a benumbing faculty, which repressed external display. We sayseemed; for there were not wanting indications, even to Sir Henry's partial eye, that the wound had sunk very deep,
The mournermightsink, although he did not writhe.
In the mornings, George, followed by Thompson, would find his way to the Protestant burial ground; and weep over the spot where his wife lay interred.
During the day, he was Sir Henry's constant and gentle companion; giving vent to no passionate display, and uttering few unavailing complaints. Yet it was now, that a symptom of disease first showed itself, which Delmé could not account for.
George would suddenly lean back, and complain of a spasm on the left side of the chest. This would occasionally, but rarely, affect the circulation. George's sleep too, was disturbed, and he frequently had to rise from his bed, and pace the apartment; but this last circumstance, perhaps, was the mere result of anxiety of mind.
Sir Henry, without informing George, consulted a medical gentleman, who was well known to him, and who happened to be at Rome at the time, regarding these novel symptoms.
He was reassured by being informed, that these pains were probably of a neuralgic character, and not at all likely to proceed from any organic affection.
George Delmé's mind was perfectly clear and collected; with the exception, that he would occasionally allude to his loss, in connection with some scene or subject of interest before them; and in a tone, and with language, that, appeared to his brother eccentric, but inexpressibly touching.
For instance, they were at Tivoli, and in the Syren's grotto, looking up to the foaming fall, which dashes down a rude cleft, formed of fantastically shaped rocks.
Immediately below this, the waters make a semicircular bend.
On their surface, a mimic rainbow was depicted in vivid colours.
"Not for me!" burst forth the mourner, "not for me! does the arc of promise wear those radiant hues. Prismatic rays once gilded my existence. With Acmé they are for ever fled. But look! how the stream dashes on! Thus have the waters of bitterness passed over my soul!"
In the gallery of the Vatican, too, the very statues seemed to speak to him of his loss.
"I like not," would he exclaim, "that disdainful Apollo. Thus cold, callous, and triumphing in the work of destruction, must be the angel of death, who winged the shaft at my bright Acmé.
"May the launching of his arrow, have been but the signal, for her translation to a sphere, more pure than this.
"Let us believe her the habitant of some bright planet, such as she pointed out to us in the Bay of Naples--a seraph with a golden lyre--and shrouded in a white cymar! No, no!" would he continue, turning his footsteps towards the adjacent room, where the suffering pangs of Apollo's high priest are painfully told in marble, "let let me rather contemplate the Laocoon! His agony seems to sympathise with mine--but was his fate as hard?Hesaw his sons dying before him; could a son, or sons, be as the wife of one's bosom? The serpent twines around him, too, awaking exquisite corporeal pangs, but would it not have been luxury to have died with my Acmé?
"Can the body suffer as the mind?"
At night, reposing from the fatigues of the day, might the brothers frequently be seen at the fountain of Trevi; George listlessly swinging on the chains near it, and steadfastly watching the water, as it gurgled over the fantastic devices beneath--while his mind wandered back to Malta, and to Acmé.
Sir Henry's conduct during this trying period was most exemplary. Like the mother, who lavishes her tenderest endearments on her sickliest child, did he now endeavour to support his brother in his afflictions.
As the bleak night wind came on, he would arouse George from his reverie--would make him lean his tall form on his--would wrap closely the folds of his cloak around him--would speaksosoftly--and soothesotenderly.
And gratefully did George's heart respond to his kindness. He knew that the sorrow which bowedhimto the earth, was also blanching the cheek of his brother, and he loved him doubly for his solicitude.
Ah! few brothers have thus made sweet the fraternal tie!
"Would I not stemA tide of suffering, rather than foregoSuch feelings for the hard and worldly phlegmOf those whose thoughts are only turn'd below,Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts that dare not glow?"
From Rome and our care-worn travellers, let us turn to Mrs. Vernon's drawing-room at Leamington.
An unforeseen event suddenly made a considerable change in the hopes and prospects of our fair friend Julia.
One warm summer's morning--it was on the very day, that the brothers, with Acmé, were sailing close to the Calabrian mountains, and the latter was telling her ghost story, within view of the sweet village of Capo del Marte--one balmy summer's morning, the Miss Vernons were seated in a room, furnished like most English drawing-rooms; that is to say, it had tables for trinkets--a superb mirror--a Broadwood piano--an Erard harp--a reclining sofa--and a woolly rug, on which slept, dreamt, and snored, a small Blenheim spaniel.
Julia had a mahogany frame before her, and was thoughtfully working a beaded purse.
The hue of health had left her cheek. Its complexion was akin to that of translucent alabaster. The features wore a more fixed and regular aspect, and their play was less buoyant and quick changing than heretofore.
Deep thought! thus has been thy warfare for ever. First, thou stealest from the rotund face its joyous dimples; then, dost thou gradually imprint remorseless furrows on the anxious brow.
A servant entered the room, and bore on a salver a letter addressed to Miss Vernon.
Its deep black binding--its large coat of arms--bespoke it death's official messenger.
Julia's cheek blanched as she glanced over its first page.
Her sisters laid down their work, and looked towards her with some curiosity.
Julia burst into tears.
"Poor uncle Vernon!"
Her sisters seemed surprised at the announcement, but not to participate in Julia's feelings on the occasion.
One of them took up the letter, which had fallen to the ground, and the two read its contents.
"How very odd!" said they together, "uncle has left you Hornby, and Catesfield, and almost all the property!"
"Has he?" replied Julia, "I could not read it all, for however he may have behaved to mamma, I ever found him good and kind; and had always hoped, that we might have yet seen him with us once more. Poor old man! and the letter says a lingering illness--how sad to think that we were not with him to soothe his pillow, and cheer his death bed!"
"Well!" said one of the sisters reddening, "I must say it was his own fault. He would not live with his nearest relations, who loved him, and tried to make his a happy home--but showed his capricethen, as he hasnow. But I will go up stairs, and break it to mamma, and will tell her you are an heiress."
"An heiress!" replied Julia, with heart-broken tone! "an heiress!" The tear quivered in her eye; but before the moisture had formed its liquid bead, to course down her pallid cheek; a thought flashed across her, which had almost the power to recal it to its cell.
That thought comprised the fervency and timidity--the hopes and fears of woman's first love. She thought of her last meeting with Sir Henry Delmé: of the objections which might now be removed.
A new vista of happiness seemed to open before her.
It was but for a moment.
The blush which that thought called up, faded away--the tear trickled on--her features recovered their serenity--and she turned with a sweet smile to her sisters.
"My dear--dear sisters! it is long since we have seen my poor uncle.
"Affection's ties may have been somewhat loosened. They cannot--I am sure--have been dissolved.
"Do not think me selfish enough to retain this generous bequest.
"It may yet be in my power, and it no doubt is, to amend its too partial provisions.
"Let us be sisters still--sisters in equality--sisters in love and affection."
Julia Vernon was a very noble girl. She lived to become of age, and she acted up to this her resolve.
And, now, a few words as to the individual, by whose death the Miss Vernons acquired such an accession of property.
The Miss Vernons' father had an only and a younger brother, who at an early age had embarked for the East, in the civil service. He had acquired great wealth, and, after a residence of twenty-five years in the Bengal Presidency, had returned to England a confirmed bachelor, and a wealthy nabob. His brother died, while Mr. Benjamin Vernon was on his passage home. He arrived in England, and found himself a stranger in his native land.
He shouldered his cane through Regent Street, and wandered in the Quadrant's shade;--and in spite of the novelties that every where met him--in spite of cabs and plated glass--felt perfectly isolated and miserable.
It is true, his Indian friends found him out at the Burlington, and their cards adorned his mantelpiece--for Mr. Benjamin Vernon was said to be worth a plum, and to be on the look out for a vacancy in the Directory.
But although these were indisputably his Indian friends, it appeared to Mr. Vernon, that they were no longer his friends of India. They seemed to him to live in a constant state of unnatural excitement.
Someprided themselves on being stars in fashion's gayest circle--others, whom he had hardly known,werefathers--for their families were educating in England---he now found surrounded by children, on whose provision they were wholly intent.
These were off at a tangent, "to see Peter Auber, at the India House," or, "could not wait an instant; they were to meet Josh: Alexander precisely at two."
And then their flippant sons! taking wine with him, forsooth--adjusting their neckcloths--and asking "whether he had met their father at Madras or Calcutta?"
This to a true Bengalee!
Nor was this all!
The young renegades ate their curry with a knife!
Others, from whom he had parted years before, shook hands with him at the Oriental, as if his presence there was a matter of course; and then asked him "what he thought of Stanley's speech?"
Now, there are few men breathing, who have their sympathies so keenly alive--who show and who look for, such warmth of heart---who are so chilled and hurt by indifference--as your bachelor East Indian.
The married one may solace himself for coldness abroad, by sunny smiles at home;--but the friendless bachelor is sick at heart, unless he encounter a hearty pressure of the hand--an eye that sparkles, as it catches his--an interested listener to his thousand and one tales of Oriental scenes, and of Oriental good fellowship.
Mr. Benjamin Vernon soon found this London solitude--it was worse than solitude--quite insupportable.
He determined to visit his brother's widow, and left town for Leamington. The brother-in-law felt more than gratified at the cordial welcome that there met him.
His heart responded to their tones of kindness, and the old Indian, in the warmth of his gratitude, thought he had at length discovered a congenial home. He plunged into the extreme of dangerous intimacy; and was soon domiciled in Mrs. Vernon's small mansion. It is absurd what trifles can extinguish friendships, and estrange affection. Mr. Vernon had always had the controul of his hours--loved his hookah, and his after-dinner dose.
His brother's widow was an amiable person, but a great deal too independent, to humour any person's foibles.
She liked activity, and disliked smoking; and was too matter-of-fact in her ideas, to conceive that these indulgences, merely from force of habit, might have now become absolute necessities.
Mrs. Vernon first used arguments; which were listened to very patiently, and as systematically disregarded.
As she thought she knew her ground better, she would occasionally secrete the hookah, and indulge in eloquent discourse, on the injurious effects, and waste of time, that the said hookah entailed.
Nor could the old man enjoy in peace, his evening slumber.
One of his nieces was always ready to shake him by the elbow, and address him with an expostulatory "Oh! dear uncle!" which, though delivered with silvery voice, seemed to him deuced provoking.
For some time, the old Indian good-naturedly acquiesced in these arrangements; and was far too polite at any time to scold, or hazard a scene.
Mrs. Vernon was all complacency, and imagined her triumph assured.
Suddenly the tempest gathered to a head. Bachelor habits regained their ascendancy; and Mrs. Vernon was thunderstruck, when it was one morning duly announced to her, that her brother-in-law had purchased a large estate in Monmouthshire, and that he intended permanently to reside there.
Mrs. Vernon was deeply chagrined.
She thought him ungrateful, and told him so.
At the outset, our East Indian was anxious that his niece Julia, who had been by far the most tolerant of his bachelor vices, should preside over his new establishment; but the feelings of the mother and daughter were alike opposed to this arrangement.
This was the last rock on which he and his brother's widow split; and it was decisive.
From that hour, all correspondence between them ceased.
Arrived in Wales, our nabob endeavoured to attach himself to country pursuits--purchased adjoining estates--employed many labourers--and greatly improved his property. But his rural occupations were quite at variance with his acquired habits.
He pined away--became hypochondriacal--and died, just three years after leaving Mrs. Vernon, for want of an Eastern sun, and something to love.
"The seal is set."
On the day fixed for the departure of Sir Henry Delmé and his brother, they together visited once more the sumptuous pile of St. Peter's, and heard the voices of the practised choristers swell through the mighty dome, as the impressive service of the Catholic Church was performed by the Pope and his conclave.
The morning dawn had seen George, as was his daily custom in Rome, kneeling beside the grave of Acmé, and breathing a prayer for their blissful reunion in heaven.
As the widower staggered from that spot, the thought crossed him, and bitterly poignant was that thought, that now might he bid a second earthly farewell, to what had been his pride, and household solace.
Now, indeed, "was the last link broken." Each hour--each traversed league--was to bear him away from even the remains of his heart's treasure.
Their bones must moulder in a different soil.
It was Sir Henry's choice that they should on that day visit Saint Peter's; and well might the travellers leave Rome with so unequalled an object fresh in the mind's eye.
Whether we gaze on its exterior of faultless proportions--or on the internal arrangement, where perfect symmetry reigns;--whether we consider the glowing canvas--or the inspired marble,--or the rich mosaics;--whether with the enthusiasm of the devotee, we bend before those gorgeous shrines; or with the comparative apathy of a cosmopolite, reflect on the historical recollections with which that edifice--the focus of the rays of Catholicism--teems and must teem forever;--we must in truth acknowledge, thattherealone is the one matchless temple, in strict and perfect harmony with Imperial Rome.
Gazing there--or recalling in after years its unclouded majesty--the delighted pilgrim knows neither shade of disappointment--nor doth he harbour one thought of decay.
Where is the other building in the "eternal city," of which we can say thus much?
Sir Henry Delmé had engaged a vettura, which was to convey them with the same horses as far as Florence.
This arrangement made them masters of their own time, and was perhaps in their case, the best that could be adopted; for slowness of progress, which is its greatest objection, was rather desirable in George's then state of health.
As is customary, Delmé made an advance to the vetturino, who usually binds himself to defray all the expenses at the inns on the road.
The travellers dined early--left Rome in the afternoon--and proposed pushing on to Neppi during the night.
When about four miles on their journey, Delmé observed a mausoleum on the side of the road, which appeared of ancient date, and rather curious construction.
On consulting his guide-book, he found it designated as the tomb of Nero.
On examining its inscription, he saw that it was erected to the memory of a Prefect of Sardinia; and he inwardly determined to distrust his guide-book on all future occasions.
The moon was up as they reached the post-house of Storta.
The inn, or rather tavern, was a small wretched looking building, with a large courtyard attached, but the stables appeared nearly--if not quite--untenanted.
Sir Henry's surprise and anger were great, when the driver, coolly stopping his horses, commenced taking off their harness;--and informed the travellers, thattheremust they remain, until he had received some instructions from his owner, which he expected by a vettura leaving Rome at a later hour.
It was in vain that the brothers expostulated, and reminded him of his agreement to stop when they pleased, expressing their determination to proceed.
The driver was dogged and unmoved; and the travellers had neglected to draw up a written bargain, which is a precaution absolutely necessary in Italy.
They soon found they had no alternative but to submit. It was with a very bad grace they did so, for Englishmen have a due abhorrence of imposition.
They at length stepped from the vehicle--indulged in some vehement remonstrances--smiled at Thompson's voluble execrations, which they found were equally unavailing--and were finally obliged to give up the point.
They were shown into a small room. The chief inmates were some Papal soldiers of ruffianly air, engaged in the clamorous game of moro. Unlike the close shorn Englishmen, their beards and mustachios, were allowed to grow to such length, as to hide the greater part of the face.
Their animated gestures and savage countenances, would have accorded well with a bandit group by Salvator.
The landlord, an obsequious little man, with face pregnant with mischievous cunning, was watching with interest, the turns of the game; and assisting his guests, to quaff his vino ordinario, which Sir Henry afterwards found was ordinary enough.
Delmé's equanimity of temper was already considerably disturbed.
The scanty accommodation afforded them, by no means diminished his choler; which he began to expend on the obstinate driver, who had followed them into the room, and was busily placing chairs round one of the tables.
"See what you can get for supper, you rascal!"
"Signore! there are some excellent fowls, and the very best wine of Velletri."
The wine was produced and proved vinegar.
The host bustled away loud in its praise, and a few seconds afterwards, the dying shriek of a veteran tenant of the poultry yard, warned them that supper was preparing.
"Thompson!" said George, rather languidly, "do, like a good fellow, see that they put no garlic with the fowl!"
"I will, Sir," replied the domestic; "and the wine, Mr. George, seems none of the best. I have a flask of brandy in the rumble."
"Just the thing!" said Sir Henry.
To their surprise, the landlord proffered sugar and lemons.
Sir Henry's countenance somewhat brightened, and he declared he would make punch.
Punch! thou just type of matrimony! thy ingredients of sweets and bitters so artfully blended, that we know not which predominate,--so deceptive, too, that we imbibe long and potent draughts, nor awake to a consciousness of thy power, till awoke by headache.
Hail to thee! all hail!
Thy very name, eked out by thine appropriate receptacle, recals raptures past--bids us appreciate joys present--and enjoins us duly to reverence thee, if we hope for joys in futurity.
A bowl of punch! each merry bacchanal rises at the call!
Moderate bacchanals all! for where is the abandoned sot, who would not rather dole out his filthy lucre, on an increase of the mere alchohol--than expend it on those grateful adjuncts, which, throwing a graceful veil over that spirit's grossness, impart to it its chief and its best attraction.
Up rises then each hearty bacchanal! thrice waving the clear tinkling crystal, ere he emits that joyful burst, fresh from the heart, which from his uncontrolled emotion, meets the ear husky and indistinct.
Delmé squeezed the lemons into not a bad substitute for a bowl, viz. a red earthen vase of rough workmanship, but elegant shape, somewhat resembling a modern wine cooler.
George stood at the inn door, wistfully looking upward; when he remarked an intelligent boy of fourteen, with dark piercing eyes, observing him somewhat earnestly.
On finding he was noticed, he approached with an air of ingenuous embarrassment--pulled off his cap--and said in a tone of enquiry,
"Un Signore Inglese?"
"Yes! my fine fellow! Do you know anything of me or the English?"
"Oh yes!" replied the boy with vivacity, replacing his cap, "I have travelled in England, and like London very much."
George conversed with him for some time; and found him to be one of that class, whose numbers make us unmindful of their wants or their loneliness; who eke out a miserable pittance, by carrying busts of plaster-of-Paris--grinding on an organ--or displaying through Europe, the tricks of some poodle dog, or the eccentricities of a monkey disguised in scarlet.
It is rare that these come from a part of Italy so far south; but it appeared in this instance, that Giuseppe's father being a carrier, had taken him with him to Milan--had there met a friend, rich in an organ and porcupine--and had entrusted the boy to his care, in order that he might see the world, and make his fortune.
Giuseppe gave a narrative of some little events, that had occurred to him during his wanderings, which greatly interested George; and he finally concluded, by saying that his father had now retired to his native place at Barberini, where many strangers came to see the "antichità." George, on referring to the guide book, found that this was indeed the case; and that Isola Barberini is marked as the site of ancient Veii, the rival of young Rome.
"And when do you go there, youngster, and how far is it from this?"
"I am going now, Signore, to be in time for supper. It is only a 'piccolo giro' across the fields; and looks as well by moonlight as at any other time."
"Ah!" replied George, "I would be glad to accompany you. Henry," said he, as he entered the room of the inn, "I am away on a classic excursion to Veii. The night is lovely--I have an excellent guide--and shall be back before you have finished your punch making.
"Dolet me go!" and he lowered his voice, and the tears swam in his eyes, "I cannot endure these rude sounds of merriment, and a moonlight walk will at least afford nothing that canthuspain me."
Sir Henry looked out. The night was perfectly fine. The young peasant, all willingness, had already shouldered his bundle, and was preparing to move forward.
"You must not be late, George," said his brother, assenting to his proposal. "Do not stay too long about the ruins. Remember that you are still delicate, and that I shall wait supper for you."
As the boy led on, George followed him in a foot path, which led through fields of meadow land, corn, and rye.
The fire-flies--mimic meteors--were giddily winging their way from bush to bush,--illuming the atmosphere, and imparting to the scene a glittering beauty, which a summer night in a northern clime cannot boast.
As they approached somewhat nearer to the hamlet, their course was over ground more rugged; and the disjointed fragments of rocks strewed, and at intervals obstructed, the path.
The cottages were soon reached.
The villagers were all in front of their dwellings, taking their last meal for the day, in the open air.
The young guide stopped in front of a cottage, a little apart from the rest. The family party were seated round a rude table, on which were plates and napkins.
Before the master of the house--a wrinkled old man, with long grey hair--was a smoking tureen of bread soup, over which he was in the act of sprinkling some grated Parmesan cheese.
A plate of green figs, and a large water melon--the cocomero--made up the repast.
"Giuseppe! you are late for supper," said the old patriarch, as the boy approached to whisper his introduction of the stranger.
The old man waved his hand courteously--made a short apology for the humble viands--and pointed to a vacant seat.
"Many thanks," said George, "but my supper already awaits me. I will not, however, interfere with my young guide. Show me the ruins, Giuseppe, and I will trouble you no further."
The boy moved on towards what were indeed ruins, or rather the vestige of such.
Here a misshapen stone--there a shattered column--decaying walls, overgrown with nettles--arches and caves, choked up with rank vegetation--bespoke remains unheeded, and but rarely visited.
George threw the boy a piece of silver--heard his repeated cautions as to his way to Storta--and wished him good night, as he hurried back to the cottage.
George Delmé sat on the shaft of a broken pillar, his face almost buried in his hands, as he looked around him on a scene once so famous.
But with him classic feelings were not upper-most. The widowed heart mourned its loneliness; and in that calm hour found the full relief of tears.
The mourner rose, and turned his face homeward, slowly--sadly--but resignedly.
The heavens had become more overcast--and clouds occasionally were hiding the moon.
It was with some difficulty that George avoided the pieces of rock which obstructed the path.
The road seemed longer, and wilder, than he had previously thought it.
Suddenly the loud bay of dogs was borne to his ear; and almost, before he had time to turn from the path, two large hounds brushed past him, followed by a rider--his gun slung before his saddle--and his horse fearlessly clattering over the loose stones.
The horseman seemed a young Roman farmer. He did not salute, and probably did not observe our traveller. As the sound from the horse receded, and the clamour of the dogs died away, a feeling almost akin to alarm crossed George's mind.
George was one, however, who rarely gave way to vague fears.
It so happened that he was armed.
Delancey had made him a present of a brace of pocket pistols, during the days of their friendship; and, very much to Sir Henry's annoyance, George had been in the habit, since leaving Malta, of constantly carrying these about him.
He strode on without adventure, until entering the field of rye.
The pathway became very narrow--so that on either side him, he grazed against the bearded ears.
Suddenly he heard a rustling sound. The moon at the moment broke from a dark cloud, and he fancied he discerned a figure near him half hid by the rye.
Again the moon was shrouded.
A rustling again ensued.
George felt a ponderous blow, which, aimed at the left shoulder, struck his left arm.
The collar of his coat was instantaneously grasped.
For a moment, George Delmé felt irresolute--then drew a pistol from his pocket and fired.
The hold was loosened--a man fell at his feet.
The pistol's flash revealed another figure, which diving into the corn--fled precipitately.
Let us turn to Sir Henry Delmé and to Thompson.
For some time after George's departure, they were busily engaged in preparing supper.
While they were thus occupied, they noticed that the Papal soldiers whispered much together--but this gave rise to no suspicion on their part.
One by one the soldiers strolled out, and the landlord betook himself to the kitchen.
The punch was duly made, and Sir Henry, leaving the room, paced thoughtfully in front of the inn.
At length it struck him, that it was almost time for his brother to return.
He was entering the inn, for the purpose of making some enquiries; when he saw one of the soldiers cross the road hurriedly, and go into the courtyard, where he was immediately joined by the vetturino.
Delmé turned in to the house, and called for the landlord.
Before the latter could appear, George rushed into the room.
His hat was off--his eyes glared wildly--his long hair streamed back, wet with the dews of night. He dragged with him the body of one of the soldiers; and threw it with supernatural strength into the very centre of the room.
"Supper!" said he, "ha, ha, ha!Ihave brought you supper!"
The man was quite dead.
The bullet had pierced his neck and throat. The blood was yet flowing, and had dabbled the white vest. His beard and hair were clotted with gore.
Shocked as Sir Henry was, the truth flashed on him. He lost not a moment in beckoning to Thompson, and rushing towards the stable. The driver was still there, conversing with the soldier.
As Sir Henry approached, they evinced involuntary confusion; and the vetturino---at once unmanned--fell on his knees, and commenced a confession.
They were dragged into the inn, and the officers of justice were sent for.
Sir Henry Delmé's anxious regards were now directed to his brother.
George had taken a seat near the corpse; and was sternly regarding it with fixed, steady, and unflinching gaze.
It is certainly very fearful to mark the dead--with pallid complexion--glazed eye--limbs fast stiffening--and gouts of blood--standing from out the face, like crimson excrescences on a diseased leaf.
But it is far more fearful than even this, to look on one, who is bound to us by the nearest and most cherished ties--with cheek yet glowing--expression's flush mantling still--and yet to doubt whether the intellect, which adorned that frame--the jewel in the casket--hath not for ever left its earthly tenement.