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

and with sunshiny

tear, looked out on the home of her ancestors.

 

There let us leave her; and turn to bid adieu for a season, to one, who

for many a weary day, was doomed to undergo the pangs of blighted

affection. Such pangs are but too poignant and enduring, let the

worldly man say what he may. Could we but read the history of the

snarling cynic, blind to this world’s good—of him, who from being the

deceived, has become the deceiver—of the rash sensualist, who plunging

into vice, thinks he can forget;—could we but know the train of

events, that have brought the stamping madman to his bars—and his

cell—and his realms of phantasy;—or search the breast of her, who

lets concealment “feed on her damask cheek”—who prays blessings on

him, who hath wasted her youthful charms—then mounts with virgin soul

to heaven:—we, in our turn, might sneer at the worldling, and pin our

fate on the tale of the peasant girl, who discourses so glibly of

crossed love and broken hearts.

 

Sir Henry Delmé left England with very unenviable sensations. A cloud

seemed to hang over the fate of his brother, which no speculations of

his could pierce. Numberless were the conjectures he formed, as to the

real causes of George’s sickness and mental depression. It was in vain

he re-read the letters, and varied his comments on their contents. It

was evident, that nothing but his actual presence in Malta, could

unravel the mystery. Sir Henry had one consolation; how great, let

those judge who have had aught dear placed in circumstances at all

similar. He had a confidence in George’s character, which entirely

relieved him from any fear that the slightest taint could have infected

it. But an act of imprudence might have destroyed his peace of

mind—sickness have wasted his body. Nor was his uncertainty regarding

George, Delmé‘s only cause of disquiet. When he thought of Julia

Vernon, there was a consequent internal emotion, that he could not

subdue. He endeavoured to forget her—her image haunted him. He

meditated on his past conduct; and at times it occurred to him, that

the resolutions he had formed, were not the result of reason, but were

based on pride and prejudice. He thought of her as he had last seen

her. Now she spoke with enthusiasm of the bright stars of heaven;

anon, her eye glistened with piety, as she showed how the feeling these

created, was but subservient to a nobler one still. Again, he was

beside her in the moment of maiden agony; when low accents faltered

from her quivering lip, and the hand that rested on his arm, trembled

from her heart’s emotion.

 

Such were the bitter fancies that assailed him, as he left his own, and

reached a foreign land. They cast a shadow on his brow, which change of

scene possessed no charm to dispel. He hurried on to France’s capital,

and only delaying till he could get his passports signed, hastened from

Paris to Marseilles.

 

On his arrival at the latter place, his first enquiries were, as to the

earliest period that a vessel would sail for Malta. He was pointed out a

small yacht in the harbour, which belonging to the British government,

had lately brought over a staff officer with despatches.

 

A courier from England had that morning arrived—the vessel was about to

return—her canvas was already loosened—the blue Peter streaming in the

wind. Delmé hesitated not an instant, but threw himself into a boat, and

was rowed alongside. The yacht’s commander was a lieutenant in our

service, although a Maltese by birth. He at once entered into Sir

Henry’s views, and felt delighted at the prospect of a companion in his

voyage. A short time elapsed—the anchor was up—the white sails began

to fill—Sir Henry was once more on the wide sea.

 

What a feeling of loneliness, almost of despair, infects the landsman’s

mind, as he recedes from an unfamiliar port—sees crowds watching

listlessly his vessel’s departure—crowds, of whom not one feels an

interest in his fate; and then, turning to the little world within,

beholds but faces he knows not, persons he wots not of!

 

But to one whose home is the ocean, such are not the emotions which

its expanse of broad waters calls forth. To such an one, each plank

seems a friend; the vessel, a refuge from the world and its cares.

Trusting himself to its guidance, deceit wounds him no more—

hollow-hearted friendship proffers not its hand to sting—love

exercises not its fatal sorcery—foes are afar—and his heart, if not

the waves, is comparatively at peace. And oh! the wonders of the deep!

Ocean! tame is the soul that loves not thee! grovelling the mind that

scorns the joys thou impartest! To lean our head on the vessel’s side,

and in idleness of spirit ponder on bygone scene, that has brought us

anything but happiness,—to gaze on the curling waves, as impelled by

the boisterous wind, we ride o’er the angry waters, lashed by the sable

keel to a yeasty madness,—to look afar upon the disturbed billow,

presenting its crested head like the curved neck of the war

horse,—then to mark the screaming sea bird, as, his bright eye

scanning the waters, he soars above the stormy main—its wide tumult

his delight—the roaring of the winds his melody—the shrieks of the

drowned an harmonious symphony to the hoarse diapason of the deep! All

these things may awake reflections, which are alike futile and

transitory; but they are accompanied by a mental excitement, which land

scenes, however glorious, always fail to impart.

 

Delmé‘s voyage was not unpropitious, although the yacht was frequently

baffled by contrary winds, which prevented the passage being very

speedy. During the day, the weather was ordinarily blustering, at times

stormy; but with the setting sun, it seemed that tranquillity came; for

during the nights, which were uncommonly fine, gentle breezes continued

to fill the sails, and their vessel made tardy but sure progress. Henry

would sit on deck till a late hour, lost in reverie. There would he

remain, until each idle mariner was sunk to rest; and nothing but the

distant tread of the wakeful watch, or the short cough of the helmsman,

bespoke a sentinel over the habitation on the waters. How would the

recollections of his life crowd upon him!—the loss of his parent—the

world’s first opening—bitter partings—painful misgivings—the lone

bivouac—the marshalling of squadrons—the fierce charge—the

excitement of victory, whose charm was all but flown, for where were the

comrades who had fought beside him? These things were recalled, and

brought with them alternate pain and pleasure. And a less remote era of

his life would be presented him; when he tasted the welcome of home—saw

hands uplifted in gratitude—was cheered by a brother’s greeting, and

subdued by a sister’s kiss. But there was a thought, which let him

dwell as he might on others, remained the uppermost of all. It was of

Julia Vernon, and met him as a reproach. If his feelings were not of

that enthusiastic nature, which they might have been were he now in his

green youth, they were not on this account the less intense. They were

coloured by the energy of manhood. He had lost a portion of his

self-respect: for he knew that his conduct had been vacillating with

regard to one, whom each traversed league, each fleeting hour, proved to

be yet dearer than he had deemed her.

 

In the first few days of their passage, the winds shaped their vessel’s

course towards the Genoese gulf. They then took a direction nearly

south, steering between Corsica and Sardinia on the one hand—Italy on

the other.

 

Delmé had an opportunity of noting the outward aspect of Napoleon’s

birth-place; and still more nearly, that of its opposite island, which

also forms so memorable a link in the history of that demi-god of modern

times. How could weaker spirits deem that there, invested with

monarchy’s semblance, the ruler of the petty isle could forget that he

had been master of the world?

 

How think that diplomacy’s cobweb fibre could hold the eagle, panting

for an upward flight?

 

They fearfully misjudged! What a transcendent light did his star give,

as it shot through the appalled heavens, ere it sunk for ever in

endless night!

 

The commander of the yacht pointed out the rock, which is traditionally

said to be the one, on which Napoleon has been represented—his arms

folded—watching intently the ocean—and ambition’s votary gleaning his

moral from the stormy waves below. As they advanced farther in their

course, other associations were not wanting; and Delmé, whose mind,

like that of most Englishmen, was deeply tinctured with classic lore,

was not insensible to their charms. They swept by the Latian coast.

Every creek and promontory, attested the fidelity of the poet’s

description, by vividly recalling it to the mind. On the seventh day,

they doubled Cape Maritime, on the western coast of Sicily; and two

days afterwards, the vessel neared what has been styled the abode of

Calypso, the island of Gozzo. As they continued to advance, picturesque

trading boats, with awnings and numerous rowers, became more

frequent—the low land appeared—they were signalled from the

palace—the point of St. Elmo was turned—and a wide forest of masts

met the gaze. The vessel took up her moorings; and in the novelty of

the scene, and surrounding bustle, Sir Henry for a time rested from

misgivings, and forgot his real causes for melancholy. The harbour of

Malta is not easily forgotten. The sun was just sinking, tinging with

hues of amber, the usually purple waters of the harbour, and bronzing

with its fiery orb, the batteries and lofty Baraca, where lie entombed

the remains of Sir Thomas Maitland. Between the Baraca’s pillars,

might be discerned many a faldette, with pretty face beneath, peering

over to mark the little yacht, as she took her station, amidst the more

gigantic line of battle ships.

 

The native boatmen, in their gilded barks with high prows, were seen

surrounding the vessel; and as they exerted themselves in passing each

other, their dress and action had the most picturesque appearance. Their

language, a corrupted Arabic, is not unpleasing to the ear; and their

costume is remarkably graceful. A red turban hangs droopingly on one

side, and their waistcoats are loaded with large silver buttons, the

only remains of their uncommon wealth during the war, when this little

island was endowed with a fictitious importance, it can never hope to

resume. Just as the yacht cast anchor, a gun from the saluting battery

was fired. It was the signal for sunset, and every flag was lowered.

Down came in most seaman-like style the proud flag of merry England—the

then spotless banner of France—and the great cross, hanging

ungracefully, over the stout, but clumsy, Russian man of war. All these

flags were then in the harbour of Valletta, although it was not at that

eventful time when—the Moslem humbled—they met with the cordiality of

colleagues in victory.

 

The harbour was full of vessels. Every nation had its representative.

The intermediate spaces were studded by Maltese boats, crowded with

passengers indiscriminately mingled. The careless English soldier, with

scarlet coat and pipe-clayed belt—priests and friars—Maltese women in

national costume sat side by side. Occasionally, a gig, pulled by man of

war’s men, might be seen making towards the town, with one or more

officers astern, whose glittering epaulettes announced them as either

diners out, or amateurs of the opera. The scene to Delmé was entirely

novel; although it had previously been his lot to scan more than one

foreign country.

 

The arrival of the health officers was the first circumstance that

diverted his mind from the surrounding scene. There had been an epidemic

disease at Marseilles, and there