A Love Story, by a Bushman - - (the speed reading book .TXT) 📗

to this day,

over the chimney-piece of many a Roman peasant, may be seen the tale of

his crimes—his confessions—and his death; which perused by casual

neighbour guests—calls up many a sign of the cross—and devout look of

rustic terror.

 

After the incident we have related in the last chapter, George Delmé,

contrary to Sir Henry’s previous misgivings, enjoyed a good night’s rest,

and arose tolerably calm and refreshed.

 

The following night he was attacked with palpitation of the heart.

 

His brother and Thompson felt greatly alarmed; but after an hour’s severe

suffering, the paroxysm left him.

 

Nothing further occurred at Storta, to induce them to attach very great

importance to the shock George’s nerves had experienced; but in after

life, Sir Henry always thought, he could date many fatal symptoms from

that hour of intense excitement.

 

Delmé was in Rome two days; during which period, his depositions, as

connected with Santado, were taken down; and he was informed that his

presence during the trial would not be insisted on.

 

Delmé took that opportunity again to consult his medical friend; who

accompanied him to Storta, to visit George; and prescribed a regimen

calculated to invigorate the general system.

 

He directed Delmé not to be alarmed, should the paroxysm return; and

recommended, that during the attack, George should lie down quietly—and

take twenty drops of Battley’s solution of opium in a wine glass of water.

 

As his friend did not appear alarmed, Delmé‘s mind was once more

assured; and he prepared to continue their journey to Florence, by the

way of Perugia.

 

Punctual to his time, the new vetturino—as to whose selection Sir Henry

had been very particular—arrived at Storta; and the whole party, with

great willingness left the wretched inn, and its suspicious inmates.

 

There certainly could not be a greater contrast, than between the two

Vetturini.

 

Vittore Santado was a Roman; young—inclined to corpulency–oily

faced—plausible—and a most consummate rascal.

 

Pietro Molini was a Milanese;—elderly—with hardly an ounce of flesh on

his body—with face scored and furrowed like the surface of the hedge

pippin—rough in his manners—and the most honest of his tribe.

 

Poor Pietro Molini! never did driver give more cheering halloo to

four-footed beast! or with spirit more elate, deliver in the drawling

patois of his native paesi, some ditty commemorative of Northern liberty!

Honest Pietro! thy wishes were contained within a small compass! thy

little brown cur, snarling and bandy-legged—thy raw-boned steeds—these

were thy first care;—the safety of thy conveyance, and its various

inmates, the second.

 

To thee—the most delightful melody in this wide world, was the jingling

of thy horses’ bells, as all cautiously and slowly they jogged on their

way:—the most discordant sound in nature, the short husky cough, emitted

from the carcase of one of these, as disease and continued fatigue made

their sure inroads.

 

Poor simple Pietro! his only pride was encased in his breeches pocket, and

it lay in a few scraps of paper—remembrances of his passengers.

 

One and all lavished praise on Pietro!

 

Yes! we have him again before us as we write—his ill-looking, but easy

carriage—his three steeds—the rude harness, eked out with clustering

knots of rope—and the happy driver, seated on a narrow bench, jutting

over the backs of his wheelers, as he contentedly whiffs from his small

red clay pipe—at intervals dropping off in a dose, with his cur on his

lap. At such a time, with what perfect nonchalance would he open his large

grey eyes, when recalled to the sense of his duties, by the volubly

breathed execration of some rival whip—and with what a silent look of

ineffable contempt, would he direct his horses to the side of the road,

and again steep his senses in quiescent repose.

 

At night, Pietro’s importance would sensibly increase, as after rubbing

down the hides of his favourites, and dropping into the capacious manger

the variegated oats; he would wait on his passengers to arrange the hour

of departure—would accept the proffered glass of wine, and give utterance

to his ready joke.

 

A King might have envied Pietro Molini, as–the straw rustling beneath

him—he laid down in his hairy capote, almost between the legs of his

favourite horse.

 

To do so will be to anticipate some years!

 

Yet we would fain relate the end of the Vetturino.

 

Crossing from Basle to Strasbourg, in the depth of winter, and descending

an undulated valley, Pietro slept as usual.

 

Implicitly relying on the sure footedness of his horses, a fond dream of

German beer, German tobacco, and German sauerkraut, soothed his slumbers.

 

A fragment of rock had been loosened from its ancient bed, and lay

across the road.

 

Against this the leader tripped and fell.

 

The shock threw Pietro and his dog from their exalted station.

 

The pipe, which—whether he were sleeping or waking—had long decked the

cheek of the honest driver, now fell from it, and was dashed into a

thousand pieces.

 

It was an evil omen.

 

When the carriage was stopped, Pietro Molini was found quite lifeless. He

had received a kick from the ungrateful heel of his friend Bruno, and the

wheel of the carriage, it had been his delight to clean, had passed over

the body of the hapless vetturino.

 

Ah! as that news spread! many an ostler of many a nation, shook his head

mournfully, and with saddened voice, wondered that the same thing had not

occurred years before.

 

At the time, however, to which we allude—viz., the commencement of the

acquaintance between our English travellers, and Pietro; the latter

thought of anything rather than of leaving a world for which he had an

uncommon affection.

 

He and Thompson soon became staunch allies; and the want of a common

language seemed only to cement their union.

 

Not Noblet, in her inimitable performance of the Muette, threw more

expression into her sweet face—than did Pietro, into the furrowed lines

of his bronzed visage, as he endeavoured to explain to his friend some

Italian custom, or the reason why he had selected another dish, or

other wine; rather than that, to which they had done such justice the

previous day.

 

Thompson’s gestures and countenance in reply, partook of a more stoical

character; but he was never found wanting, when a companion was needed for

a bottle or a pipe.

 

Their friendship was not an uninstructive one.

 

It would have edified him, who prides himself on his deep knowledge of

human nature, or who seizes with avidity on the minuter traits of a

nation, to note with what attention the English valet, would listen to a

Milanese arietta; whose love notes, delivered by the unmusical Pietro,

were about as effectively pathetic as the croak of the bull frog in a

marsh, or screech of owl sentimentalising in ivied ruin; and to mark

with what gravity, the Italian driver would beat his hand against the

table; in tune to “Ben Baxter,” or “The British Grenadiers,” roared out

more Anglico.

 

There are two grand routes from Home to Florence:—the one is by Perugia,

the other passes through Sienna. The former, which is the one Sir Henry

selected, is the most attractive to the ordinary traveller; who is enabled

to visit the fall of Terni, Thrasymene, and the temple of Clitumnuss The

first, despite its being artificial, is equal in our opinion, to the

vaunted Schaffhausen;—the second is hallowed in story;—and the third has

been illustrated by Byron.

 

“Pass not unblest the genius of the place!

If through the air a zephyr more serene

Win to the brow, ‘tis his; and if ye trace

Along the margin a more eloquent green,

If on the heart, the freshness of the scene

Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust

Of weary life a moment lave it clean

With nature’s baptism,—‘tis to him ye must

Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust.”

 

Poor George Delmé showed little interest in anything connected with

this journey. Sir Henry embarked on the lake above, in order to see the

cascade of Terni in every point of view; and afterwards took his

station with George, on various ledges of rock below the fall—whence

the eye looks upward, on that mystic scene of havoc, turbulence, and

mighty rush of water.

 

But the cataract fell in snowy sheet—the waves hissed round the sable

rocks—and the rainbow played on the torrent’s foam;—but these

possessed not a charm, to rouse to a sense of their beauty, the sad

heart of the invalid.

 

Near the lake of Thrasymene, they passed some hours; allowing Pietro to

put up his horses at Casa di Piano. Sir Henry, with a Livy in his hand,

first proceeded to the small eminence, looking down on the round tower of

Borghetto; and on that insidious pass, which his fancy peopled once more,

with the advancing troops of the Consul.

 

The soldier felt much interested, and attempted to impart that interest to

George; but the widowed husband shook his head mournfully; and it was

evident, that his thoughts were not with Flaminius and his entrapped

soldiers, but with the gentle Acmé, mouldering in her lonely grave.

 

From Borghetto, they proceeded to the village of Torre, where Delmé was

glad to accept the hospitable offer of its Priest, and procure seats for

himself and George, in the balcony of his little cottage. From this

point, they looked down on the arena of war.

 

There it lay, serene and basking in the rays of the meridian sun.

 

On either side, were the purple summits of the Gualandra hills.

 

Beneath flowed the little rivulet, once choked by the bodies of the

combatants; but which now sparkled gaily through the valley, although at

intervals, almost dried up by the fierce heat of summer.

 

The lake was tranquil and unruffled—all on its margin, hushed and

moveless. What a contrast to that exciting hour, which Sir Henry was

conjuring up again; when the clang of arms, and crash of squadrons,

commingled with the exulting shout, that bespoke the confident hope of the

wily Carthaginian; and with that sterner response, which hurled back the

indomitable spirit of the unyielding, but despairing Roman!

 

Our travellers quitted the Papal territories; and entering Tuscany, passed

through Arezzo, the birth-place of Petrarch; arriving at Florence just

previous to sunset.

 

As they reached the Lung’ Arno, Pietro put his horses to a fast trot, and

rattling over the flagged road, drew up in front of Schneidorff’s with an

air of greater importance, than his sorry vehicle seemed to warrant.

 

The following morning, George Delmé was taken by his brother, to visit

the English physician resident at Florence; and again was Delmé informed,

that change of scene, quiet, and peace of mind, were what his brother

most required.

 

George was thinner perhaps, than when at Rome, and his lip had lost its

lustrous red; but he concealed his physical sufferings, and always met

Henry with the same soft undeviating smile.

 

On their first visit to the Tribune, George was struck with the Samian

Sibyl of Guercino.

 

In the glowing lip—the silken cheek—the ivory temple—the eye of

inspiration—the bereaved mourner thought he could trace, some faint

resemblance to the lost Acmé. Henceforward, it was his greatest pleasure,

to remain with eyes fixed on that masterpiece of art.

 

Sir Henry Delmé, accompanied by the custode, would make himself

acquainted with the wonders of the Florentine gallery; and every now and

then, return to whisper some sentence, in the soothing tones of brotherly

kindness. At night, their usual haunt was the public square—where the

loggio of Andrea Orcagna presents so much, that may claim attention.

 

There stands the David! in the freshness of his youth! proudly regarding

his adversary—ere he overthrow, with