 
How glorious is the thrill, which shoots through our frame, as we first wake to the consciousness of our intellectual power; as we feel the spirit--the undying spirit--ready to burst the gross bonds of flesh, and soar triumphant, over the sneers of others, and our own mistrust. How does each thought seem to swell in our bosom, as if impatient of the confined tenement--how do the floating ideas congregate--how does each impassioned feeling subdue us in turn, and long for a worthy utterance! This is a very bright moment in the history of our lives. It is one in which we feel--indubitably feel--that we are of the fashioning of God;--that the light which intellect darts around us, is not the result of education--of maxims inculcated--or of principles instilled;--but that it is a ray caught from the brightness of eternity--that when our wavering pulse has ceased to beat, and the etherialised elements have left the baser and the useless dust--that ray shall not be quenched; but shall again be absorbed in the full effulgence from which it emanated. Surely then, if such a glorious moment as this, be accorded to even the inferior votaries of knowledge--to the meaner pilgrims, struggling on towards the resplendent shrines of science:--how must he--the divine Petrarch, who could so exquisitely delineate love's hopes and story, as to clothe an earthly passion, with half the attributes of an immortal affection:--how must he have revelled in the proud sensations called forth at such a moment! It is the curse of the poet, that he must perforce leave the golden atmosphere of loftiest aspirations--step from the magic circle, where all is pure and etherial--and find himself the impotent denizen, of a sombre and an earthly world, It was in the early part of September, that the brothers turned their backs on the Etrurian Athens. Their destination was Venice, and their route lay through Bologna and ArquÀ. They had been so satisfied, under the guidance of their old vetturino, that Sir Henry made an arrangement, which induced him to be at Florence, at the time of their departure;--and Pietro and Thompson were once more seated beside each other. Before commencing the ascent of the Appennines, our travellers visited the country seat of the Archduke; saw the gigantic statue executed by John of Bologna, which frowns over the lake; and at Fonte-buona, cast a farewell glance on Florence, and the ancient Fiesole. As they advanced towards Caravigliojo, the mountains began to be more formidable, and the scenery to lose its smiling character. Each step seemed to add to the barrenness of the landscape. The wind came howling down from the black volcanic looking ridges--then swept tempestuously through some deep ravine. On either side the road, tall red poles presented themselves, a guide to the traveller during winter's snows; while, in one exposed gully, were built large stone embankments for his protection--as a Latin inscription intimated--from the violence of the gales. Few signs of life appeared. Here and there, her white kerchief shading a sun-burnt face, a young Bolognese shepherd girl might be seen on some grassy ledge, waving her hand coquettishly; while her neglected flock, with tinkling bell, browsed on the edge of the precipice. As they neared Bologna, however, the scenery changed. Festoons of grapes, trained to leafy elms, began to appear--white villas chequered the suburbs--and it was with a pleasurable feeling, that they neared the peculiar looking city, with its leaning towers, and old faÇades. It is the only one, where the Englishman recals Mrs. Ratcliffe's harrowing tales; and half expects to see a Schedoni, advancing from some covered portico. The next day found them in the Bolognese gallery, which is the first which duly impresses the traveller, coming from the north, with the full powers of the art. The soul of music seems to dwell in the face of the St. Cecilia; and the cup of maternal anguish to be filled to the brim, as in Guide's Murder of the Innocents, the mother clasps to her arms the terrified babe, and strives to flee from the ruthless destroyer. It was on the fourth morning from their arrival in Bologna, that they approached the poet's "mansion and his sepulchre." As they threaded the green windings of vine covered hills, these gradually assumed a bolder outline, and, rising in separate cones, formed a sylvan amphitheatre round the lovely village of ArquÀ. The road made an abrupt ascent to the Fontana Petrarca. A large ruined arch spanned a fine spring, that rushes down the green slope. In the church-yard, on the right, is the tomb of Petrarch. Its peculiarly bold elevation--the numberless thrilling associations connected with the poet--gave a tone and character to the whole scene. The chiaro-scuro of the landscape, was from the light of his genius--the shade of his tomb. The day was lovely--warm, but not oppressive. The soft green of the hills and foliage, checked the glare of the flaunting sunbeams. The brothers left the carriage to gaze on the sarcophagus of red marble, raised on pilasters; and could not help deeming even the indifferent bronze bust of Petrarch, which surmounts this, to be a superfluous ornament in such a scene. The surrounding landscape--the dwelling place of the poet--his tomb facing the heavens, and disdaining even the shadow of trees--the half-effaced inscription of that hallowed shrine--all these seemed appropriate, and melted the gazer's heart. How useless! how intrusive! are the superfluous decorations of art, amid the simpler scenes of nature. Ornament is here misplaced. The feeling heart regrets its presence at the time, and attempts, albeit in vain, to banish it from after recollections. George could not restrain his tears, for he thought of the dead; and they silently followed their guide to Petrarch's house, now partly used as a granary. Passing through two or three unfinished rooms, whose walls were adorned with rude frescoes of the lover and his mistress, they were shown into Petrarch's chamber, damp and untenanted. In the closet adjoining, were the chair and table consecrated by the poet. There did he sit--and write--and muse--and die! George turned to a tall narrow window, and looked out on a scene, fair and luxuriant as the garden of Eden. The rich fig trees, with their peculiar small, high scented fruit, mixed with the vines that clustered round the lattice. The round heads of the full bearing peach trees, dipped down in a leafy slope beneath a grassy walk;--and this thicket of fruit was charmingly enlivened, by bunches of the scarlet pomegranate, now in the pride of their blossom. The poet's garden alone was neglected--rank herbage choking up its uncultivated flowers. A thousand thoughts filled the mind of George DelmÉ. He thought of Laura! of his own AcmÉ! With swimming glance, he looked round the chamber. It was almost without furniture, and without ornament. In a niche, and within a glass case, was placed the skeleton of a dumb favourite of Petrarch's. Suddenly George DelmÉ felt a faintness stealing over him:--and he turned to bare his forehead, to catch the slight breeze from below redolent of sweets. This did not relieve him. A sharp pain across the chest, and a fluttering at the heart, as of a bird struggling to be free, succeeded this faintness. Another rush of blood to the head:--and a snap, as of some tendon, was distinctly felt by the sufferer. His mouth filled with blood. A small blood-vessel had burst, and temporary insensibility ensued. Sir Henry was wholly unprepared for this scene. Assisted by Thompson, he bore him to the carriage--sprinkled his face with water--and administered cordials. George's recovery was speedy; and it almost seemed, as if the rupture of the vessel had been caused by the irregular circulation, for no further bad effects were felt at the time. The loss of blood, however, evidently weakened him; and his spasms henceforward were more frequent. He became less able to undergo fatigue; and his mind, probably in connection with the nervous system, became more than ordinarily excited. There was no longer wildness in his actions; but in his thoughts and language, was developed a poetical eccentricity--a morbid sympathy with surrounding scenes and impressions, which kept Sir Henry DelmÉ in a constant state of alarm,--and which was very remarkable. "What! at MestrÉ already, Pietro?" said Sir Henry. "Even so, Signore! and here is the gondola to take you on to Venice." "Well, Pietro! you must not fail to come and see us at the inn." The vetturino touched his hat, with the air of a man who would be very sorry not to see them. It was not long ere the glittering prow of the gondola pointed to Venice. Before the travellers, rose ocean's Cybele; springing from the waters, like some fairy city, described to youthful ear by aged lip. The fantastic dome of St. Mark--the Palladian churches--the columned palaces--the sable gondolas shooting through the canals--made its aspect, as is its reality, unique in the world. "Beautiful, beautiful city!" said George, his eye lighting up as he spoke, "thou dost indeed look a city of the heart--a resting place for a wearied spirit. And our gondola, Henry, should be of burnished silver; and those afar--so noiselessly cutting their way through the glassy surface--those should be angels with golden wings; and, instead of an oar flashing freely, a snowy wand of mercy should beat back the kissing billows. "And AcmÉ, with her George, should sit on the crystal cushion of glory--and we would wait expectant for you a long long time--and then you should join us, Henry, with dear Emily. "And Thompson should be with us, too, and recline on the steps of our bark as he does now. "And together we would sail loving and happy through an amethystine sea." During their stay in Venice, George, in spite of his increasing languor, continued to accompany his brother, in his visits to the various objects of interest which the city can boast. The motion of the gondola appeared to have a soothing influence on the mind of the invalid. He would recline on the cushions, and the fast flowing tears would course down his wan cheeks. These, however, were far from being a proof of suffering;--they were evidently a relief to the surcharged spirit. One evening, a little before sunset, they found themselves in the crowded piazza of Saint Mark. The cafÉs were thronged with noble Venetians, come to witness the evening parade of an Austrian regiment. The sounds of martial music, swelled above the hum of the multitude; and few could listen to those strains, without participating in some degree, in the military enthusiasm of the hour. But the brothers turned from the pageantry of war, as their eyes fell on the emblems of Venice free--the minarets of St. Mark, with the horses of Lysippus, a spoil from Byzantium--the flagless poles that once bore the banners of three tributary states--the highly adorned azure clock--the palaces of the proud Doges--where Faliero reigned--where Faliero suffered:--these were before them. Their steps mechanically turned to the beautiful Campanile. George, leaning heavily on Sir Henry's arm, succeeded in gaining the summit: and they looked down from thence, on that wonderful city. They saw the parade dismissed--they heard the bugle's fitful blast proclaim the hour of sunset. The richest hues of crimson and of gold, tinted the opposite heavens; while on those waters, over which the gondolas were swiftly gliding, quivered another city, the magic reflection of the one beneath them. They gazed on the scene in silence, till the grey twilight came on. "Now, George! it is getting late," said Sir Henry. "I wonder whether we could find some old mariner, who could give us a chaunt from Tasso?" Descending from the Campanile, Sir Henry made enquiries on the quay, and with some difficulty found gondoliers, who could still recite from their favourite bard. Engaging a couple of boats, and placing a singer in each, the brothers were rowed down the Canale Giudecca--skirted many of the small islands, studding the lagoons; and proceeded towards the Adriatic. Gradually the boats parted company, and just as Sir Henry was about to speak, thinking there might be a mistake as to the directions; the gondolier in the other boat commenced his song,--its deep bass mellowed by distance, and the intervening waves. The sound was electric. It was so exquisitely appropriate to the scene, and harmonised so admirably, with the associations which Venice is apt to awaken, that one longed to be able to embody that fleeting sound--to renew its magic influence in after years. The pen may depict man's stormy feelings: the sensitive caprice of woman:--the most vivid tints may be imitated on the glowing canvas:--the inspired marble may realise our every idea of the beauty of form:--a scroll may give us at will, the divine inspiration, of Handel:--but there are sounds, as there are subtle thoughts, which, away from the scenes, where they have charmed us, can never delight us more. It was not until the second boatman answered the song, that the brothers felt how little the charm lay, in the voice of the gondolier, and that, heard nearer, the sounds were harsh and inharmonious. They recited the death of Clorinda; the one renewing the stanza, whenever there was a momentary forgetfulness on the part of the other. The clock of St. Mark had struck twelve, before the travellers had reached the hotel. George had not complained of fatigue, during a day which even Sir Henry thought a trying one; and the latter was willing to hope that his strength was now increasing. Their first design had been to proceed though Switzerland, resting for some time at Geneva. Their plans were now changed, and Sir Henry Belme determined, that their homeward route should be through the Tyrol and Bavaria, and eventually down the Rhine. He considered that the water carriage, and the very scenes themselves, might prove beneficial to the invalid. Thompson was sent over to MestrÉ, to inform Pietro; and they prepared to take their departure. "You have been better in Venice," said Sir Henry, as they entered the gondola, that was to bear them from the city. "God grant that you may long remain so!" George shook his head doubtingly. "My illness, Henry, is not of the frame alone, although that is fragile and shattered. "The body lingers on without suffering; but the mind--a very bright sword in a worthless sheath--is forcing its way through. Some feelings must remain to the last--gratitude to you--love to dear Emily! AcmÉ, wife of my bosom! when may I join you?" Chapter IX. |
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