Chapter VI (3)

He paused for a moment, and then continued; “I would not, could not see Bianca. The romance of life was at an end. I shut myself up among the creations of my pencil, but they failed to awaken my spirit from its lethargy; and I find the energies of my soul withering daily, and my frame consuming with the fire that will not be quenched.”

Tears glistened in the eyes of the sensitive Italian, and he hurried on. “I love you, Melburn; you would save me from myself, and you have made me feel that there is disinterested kindness in humanity. There have been times, my friend, when a whispering demon seemed urging me to rid myself of the load that oppressed me—‘it is but a drop of opiate—it is but the keen point of the dark blue steel—it is but the flash of a moment, and all will be over.’ Then there came thoughts of the dread loneliness and degradation of the grave—perhaps the judgment! and—”

“Giovanni,” said Melburn solemnly, interrupting him, “brave not the Most High. Life is a precious deposit, and it is not for man to interfere with the will of Omnipotence. Suicide is the crime of a coward, perpetrated in moral darkness; it is a crime which leaves not a moment for repentance or for pardon, but ushers the blood-stained soul unshriven into the presence of its God.”

A shudder passed over the frame of the Italian as he drew from his bosom a small poignard of exquisite workmanship; “Take it—take it, Melburn,” he exclaimed, “you have saved me.”

A lingering pressure of the hand was Melburn’s only answer.

It was now too late for them to think of visiting the Coliseum—besides, their minds were not in a state to do so; and after making an appointment for the morrow, they separated.

When Melburn reached his room at the hotel, he was delighted to find letters from his relatives, who had just arrived in Naples from Sicily, announcing their intention of remaining there for some weeks, and begging him to join their party immediately. Nothing could have happened more opportunely; for, for some days past, he had been thinking seriously of setting out to overtake them wherever they might be. And then the image of Alice—how often did it mingle in his dreams, and haunt his waking hours.

The next day he spent with Giovanni Rosa in wandering among the ruins of Rome; and it was with sincere regret that the enthusiastic Italian heard of the contemplated journey to Naples. “You will forget me, Melburn,” he said sorrowfully; “the remembrance of me will be but as a passing shadow, while you will live within my heart. But you will return, will you not?”

“Yes, Giovanni—perhaps soon. At all events, I shall spend some time again in Rome before I bid adieu to beautiful Italy forever.”

“I hope so,” exclaimed Rosa, as he grasped Melburn’s hand at parting; “I will remember your counsel—I will strive ‘in this to overcome.’”

“Ay, Rosa, for my sake, and for your future fame, struggle on, it will not be in vain.”

The Italian gazed at the receding form of the young Englishman until it disappeared; and then hurrying home, he rushed to his room and burst into tears.

It was on the evening of the second day after his departure from Rome that Arthur Melburn arrived in Naples. Travel-worn and covered with dust as he was, he sought instantly the _salon_ where he expected to meet his relatives. No one was there but Alice; and as she rose hastily to meet him, he could scarcely believe that the beautiful being before him was the gay, romping cousin of earlier days. What the countenance had lost of ruddiness and glow, it had gained in the intellectual, I may almost say the spiritual expression that now characterized it. Eloquent thought had stamped a serene loveliness upon her brow, and feeling had robbed the cheek of its roses to impart a softer lustre to her eye. Arthur clasped her hands in his, gazed at her, hesitated, and then raised one fair hand to his lips. “Dear Alice,” he said, and as those tones fell upon her ear, a crimson blush passed over her face, and then left it paler than before. And what were the feelings of Melburn? Ah, at such moments how memories throng upon the overpowered heart, concentrating in one glowing point the beautiful rays that have illumined life, and fastening as with a diamond rivet the slender links of love’s frail chain. Frail? Ay, frail; unless the hallowed influences of years have given to it enduring strength, and then it must be a power almost super-human that can sever it.

How much there was to hear, how much to tell; and as each member of the family welcomed the new comer, how pleasant it was to feel almost at home again, though in a land of strangers. In the society of Alice, whose mind was capable of appreciating his superior attainments, Melburn visited all the places worthy of notice in and around Naples; and each day, as it verged to its decline, added some memorial of happiness to be garnered in their hearts. Theirs was not a love blinded by passion, exaggerated in its impulses, and consuming to ashes while it burned; but it was the genial ray lent by Heaven to gladden with its pure light the darker pathways of this world. It was love such as an angel might have looked upon, without feeling that the spirit had been tinged by aught of earthly stain.

Week after week rolled on with a rapidity almost incredible, for time to the happy is winged with swifter pinions, and the winter had nearly passed away before they returned to Rome.

Melburn’s first visit was to the studio of the young painter. His cheek was paler, and his frame more attenuated, but the expression of his countenance was less wild and haggard. In the endearing epithets of his sweet language he welcomed the traveler, and gazed upon him with a melancholy tenderness.

“Ah, Melburn,” he said, after their first congratulations had been exchanged, “ah, Melburn, I began to fear that I should never look upon your face again. It would have grieved me to descend into the cold, dark grave without having once more heard the tones of sympathy and kindness. I have struggled to smother the contending passions within my breast; I have suffered; but I have been calm.”

“You apply yourself too closely to your art, Giovanni; why not abandon it for a time, and seek renovated health in change of air, and change of scene?”

“I shall carry the same heart with me, Melburn; it is too late. I feel that I am dying—the withering blight of years has struck home. But let us not dwell upon that now. It does me good to see you once more; and to feel that I have one friend in the wide world.”

“Yes, Giovanni,” answered the young Englishman, “the bond of friendship has become strong between us, although but a few months ago we met as strangers. I know not what mysterious sympathy attracted us to each other, but I felt from the moment I saw you, as if there was a connecting link in our destinies. An impulse which I cannot define induced me to offer you the seat in my traveling carriage, as I was leaving Florence; and when we reached Rome, I could not think of parting from you as a stranger. I see with pain that your health is failing; dear Rosa, let me persuade you to accompany me next month to England. Circumscribed means need be no obstacle, for I have wealth enough to spare; nay, interrupt me not—he is not my friend who would refuse to receive so small an obligation at my hands. The journey might restore your waning strength, and after a residence of a few months there, you might return to your country with a renovated frame and a happier mind. Since I left you, Giovanni, I have become affianced to one whom I have long loved; and she will unite with me, I am sure, in striving to make you happy.”

“I wish you joy, Melburn,” exclaimed the Italian with much feeling; “God grant that she may be worthy of you. But, my friend, I cannot accept your kind offer. I would die here—here in the beautiful land that gave me birth; surrounded by the objects I have worshiped, and on the spot where I first met her. Here must be my grave; and perhaps at some future day she may revisit this sunny clime, and remember the heart that beat and broke for her.”

Melburn saw that it was useless to contend for the present against the morbid melancholy which seemed to have settled upon the spirit of the painter, and he began to converse upon lighter themes. All proved powerless to win him from his gloomy abstraction; at length rousing himself as if from a dreamy reverie, he said, “Happiness is attained by some; you are happy, Melburn.”

“Yes, Giovanni, I am happy; but I do not look for an unchequered path in this world. I know that cares, anxieties, and afflictions fall sooner or later to the lot of all; and I would be prepared to lose the blessings I enjoy by not loving them too well. A just balance in which to weigh the objects of fluctuating desire is necessary to our forming just views of their value; and will prevent our giving undue preponderance to those which are secondary or trivial in themselves. We are so apt to surround some wished for boon, while unattained, with vague anticipations of delight, which the possession too often fails to realize.”

“That is true, Melburn; but many a heart lives on hope that never enjoys fruition.”

Melburn smiled as he answered, “In gazing upon the forbidden garden that crowns some lofty hill inaccessible to us, we may forget the fruits and flowers that are lying in profusion at our feet, untasted, unappreciated. Is it not so, Giovanni?”

“I mean the hopes that stand out in bold relief wearing the hues of immortality; I mean the undying yearnings of the loving heart, the glorious aspirations of the godlike mind. Nothing short of fruition in these can satisfy a nature such as mine.”

“Then, Giovanni, your hope must cast its anchor in the ‘deep profound’ of another world—it must seek its fruition in the Eternal. You may as well search for coral in the bowels of the earth, or for gold in the bosom of the sea, as to seek a resting-place for the immortal spirit in the regions of mortality. I am not a religionist—I am not the bigoted follower of any creed; but in the exalted aspirations of our nature, I recognize the immaterial principle that will hereafter assimilate us to God. It instills a perception of the beautiful, a yearning for the good, an appreciation of the true, that cannot be realized in this imperfect state of existence. Looking abroad upon the stupendous universe, I see every thing fulfilling its destined end. Surely, these heaven-born aspirations will not be quenched in the forgetfulness of the grave, but, disencumbered of their material elements, will find their completeness and felicity in the source from which they sprung. Would to God, my friend, that you could feel as deeply as I do, how infinitely the interests of our future destiny transcend those of our present state of being.”

“I have reflected, Melburn, upon our frequent conversations, and I feel, that had my mind been trained as yours has been, I should not be the creature of wayward impulse that I am. My temperament is an unhappy one—a temperament that might induce insanity, should my life be spared. But that life is fast ebbing to its close, and I am content to die. I have prayed that God may be merciful.”

He paused, and threw back from his brow the rich, dark locks that had fallen over it; and assuming a tone of cheerfulness, he said, “Tell me of your bride, Melburn; you had not spoken to me of her.”

Melburn smiled as he answered, “She is not an angel, Giovanni, but I think that there are few who can be compared to my sweet Alice.”

“Alice! did you say?”

“Yes, Alice Templeton.”

A change, a fearful change came over the face of the Italian. The crimson blood rushed to his brow, while his eyes glared with the furious passion of a demon. Rage, hate, despair, were all concentrated in the wild glance which he threw upon Melburn, as he advanced toward him; then the blood retreated to his heart, and left his cheek as white as marble. His breath came short and heavy; and he stood rooted to the spot like a thing of stone.

“For God’s sake, Giovanni,” exclaimed Melburn, “what is the matter? You appal—you terrify me.”

The painter grasped his hand, and dragging him to an adjoining apartment, tore aside the snow-white veil that hung over a picture. Melburn looked upon the face of Alice—his Alice—the idolized love of the Italian. But it was Alice as an angel—for her beauty was so spiritualized, that the earthly seemed lost in the heavenly. Melburn hid his face in his hands for a moment; then stretching out his arms, the stricken child of destiny rushed into them, and sank insensible upon his bosom.

Hour after hour passed on, and still consciousness did not revive in that feeble frame. There was a glimmering of life, nothing more; and as Melburn watched beside his couch, tears, more burning than any he had ever shed, fell upon the inanimate form on which he gazed. “Poor Rosa,” he murmured, “thou hast indeed been the sport of adverse circumstances. This, then, is the link of the mysterious chain that bound me to thee; our hearts drank at the same fountain, and became united in the same stream. Peace, peace to thy parting spirit. God receive thy weary soul.”

The light of life never gleamed again. He lingered through another day. As the veil of night descended upon the world, the spirit of the unfortunate Italian took its flight to the shadowy far-off land.

It was midnight. Tapers were burning upon the coffin in which lay all that remained of Giovanni Rosa. Melburn, with two friends of the deceased, kept a sorrowful vigil beside the clay-cold form; and as the tedious hours crept on, the death-like silence became almost insupportable. At length a soft step was heard, and a female form in white glided noiselessly to the coffin’s side. She lifted the crape that shrouded the face beneath, and gazed fearlessly upon the lineaments so beautiful in their repose; then kissing the cold brow, she replaced the snowy covering, and silently departed as she came.

The next morning they heard that Bianca was dead. She had taken poison.

In the Chiesa di Santa Maria is a costly monument of marble, erected over the remains of the young painter by his English friend. Before they returned to England, Melburn and his betrothed visited the spot together, fulfilling the wish of the departed, “that she might stand beside his grave, and remember the heart that beat and broke for her.”

* * * * *

SONNETS

ON RECEIVING A CROWN OF IVY FROM JOHN KEATS—BY LEIGH HUNT.

The sonnets below are on a blank leaf, in an edition of the
early poems of John Keats “printed for C. & J. Ollier, 3 Welbeck
street, London, 1817.” The book was presented to me by my
friend, the late George Keats, (brother of the poet,) who
resided for many years prior to his death in this city. They are
in the handwriting of Hunt, and are not contained in any edition
of his poems which I have seen. You can readily ascertain
whether they have appeared in print—if they have not, I think
they may be acceptable to many of your readers, and therefore
send them.

G. R. GRAHAM, Esq.
F. COSBY, Jr., Louisville, Ky.

I.

A crown of ivy! I submit my head
To the young hand that gives it—young, ’tis true,
But with a right, for ’tis a poet’s too.
How pleasant the leaves feel! and how they spread
With their broad angles, like a nodding shed
Over both eyes! and how complete and new,
As on my hand I lean, to feel them strew
My sense with freshness—Fancy’s rustling bed!
Tress-tossing girls, with smell of flowers and grapes,
Come dancing by, and piping cheeks intent,
And thrown up cymbals, and Silvanus old
Lumpishly borne, and many trampling shapes,
And lastly, with his bright eyes on her bent,
Bacchus—whose bride has of his hand fast hold.

II.

It is a lofty feeling, yet a kind,
Thus to be topped with leaves—to have a sense
Of honor—shaded thought—an influence
As from great Nature’s fingers—and be twined
With her old, sacred, verdurous ivy-bind,
As though she hallowed with that sylvan fence
A head that bows to her benevolence,
Midst pomp of fancied trumpets in the wind.
’Tis what’s within us, crowned. And kind and great
Are all the conquering wishes it inspires,
Love of things lasting, love of the tall woods,
Love of love’s self, and ardor for a state
Of natural good befitting such desires,
Towns without gain, and haunted solitudes.

* * * * *

GAME-BIRDS OF AMERICA.—NO. IV.

THE GADWALL. (_Anas Strepera._ WILSON.)

This beautiful duck is valuable on account of the excellence of its flesh, though its expertness as a diver renders it difficult to be shot. Its flight is very rapid, its note like that of the Mallard, but louder; it is fond of salines and ponds overgrown with reeds and rushes; feeds chiefly in the morning and evening. The Gadwall is still smaller than the Shoveller. The male bird is in length about nineteen inches, in breadth about thirty-three; the bill two inches long, flat, and of a black color; markings of the plumage exceedingly minute, giving it a sort of appearance as if it were marked with delicate stripe and enclosed in a net work. The crown is dusky brown, rest of the upper half of the neck brownish white, both thickly speckled with black; lower part of the neck and breast dusky black, elegantly ornamented with large, concentric semi-circles of white scapulars, waved with lines of white on a dusky ground; primaries ash; greater wing coverts black, and several of the lesser coverts, immediately above, chestnut red; speculum white, bordered below with black, forming three broad bands on the wing, of chestnut, black and white; belly dull white; rump and tail coverts black, glossed with green; tail tapering, pointed, of a pale brown ash, edged with white; flanks dull white, elegantly waved; tertials long, and of a pale brown; legs orange red.

THE LONG-TAILED DUCK. (_Harelda Glacialis._)

The sub-genus Harelda is in many respects analogous to the Pochard or Scaup duck; it is a diving duck, and makes its appearance at the same season, and, like the latter, it is common to the colder regions of the whole northern hemisphere. Unlike many others of the family of ducks, it does not entirely quit its northern haunts in winter, but resides permanently in considerable numbers in the polar regions. Numerous flocks, however, spread themselves southward in the winter, from Greenland and Hudson’s Bay as far as the coast of Carolina, and from Iceland and Spitsbergen over Lapland, the Russian dominions, Sweden, Norway, and the northern parts of the British Isles in Europe. The bands which visit the Orkneys appear in October, and continue there till April. About sunset they are seen in large companies going to and returning from the bays in which they frequently pass the night, making a noise which, in frosty weather, may be heard at the distance of several miles. They are rather scarce in England, to which they resort only in very hard winters, and then in small straggling parties. They fly swiftly, but seldom to a very great distance, making a loud and singular cry. They are extremely expert divers, feeding almost exclusively on shell-fish. The female places her nest among the grass near the water, and, like the Eider duck, lines it with down from her own body. This lining is considered by Latham equally valuable with Eider down, but cannot be had in so great quantity. This duck is known along the shores of the Chesapeake and the coast of the Carolinas by the name of South-Southerly, from its singular cry somewhat resembling the sound of those words. On the coast of New Jersey it bears the appellation of Old Squaws or Old Wives. The northern Indians call it the Hah-hah-way, and it has elsewhere received the name of the Caccawee. We cannot devote the space necessary to a full description of the plumage of both sexes of this beautiful variety of ducks, though to the scientific sportsman it might be far from uninteresting. We will therefore merely glance at the plumage of the male, as given by Wilson, and pass on to notice another of the duck family, which like the one before us prefers the dangerous but productive ocean to the less turbulent inland waters. The mate of the long-tailed duck is distinguished from her partner by wanting the lengthened tertials, and the two long pointed feathers of the tail, and also by her size and the rest of her plumage. The length of the male is twenty-two inches; extent thirty inches; bill black, crossed near the extremity by a band of orange; tongue downy; iris dark red; cheeks and frontlet dull dusky-drab, passing over the eye and joining a large patch of black on the side of the neck, which ends in dark brown; throat and rest of the neck white; crown tufted, and of a pale cream-color; lower part of the neck, breast, back and wings black; scapulars and tertials pale blueish-white, long and pointed, and falling gracefully over the wings; the white of the lower part of the neck spreads over the back an inch or two; the white of the belly spreads over the sides, and nearly meets at the rump; secondaries chestnut, forming a bar across the wing; primaries, rump and tail coverts, black; the tail consists of fourteen feathers, all remarkably pointed, the two middle ones nearly four inches longer than the others; these with the two adjoining ones are black, the rest white; legs and feet dusky slate.

The windpipe is very curiously formed; besides the labyrinth, which is nearly as large as the end of the thumb, it has an expansion, immediately above that, of double its usual diameter, which continues for an inch and a half; this is flattened on the side next the breast, with an oblong, window-like vacancy in it, crossed with five narrow bars, and covered with a thin transparent skin, like the panes of a window; another thin skin of the same kind is spread over the external side of the labyrinth, which is partly of a circular form.

AMERICAN WIDGEON. (_Anas Americana._ WILSON.)

Like many of the human race, the bird now before us contrives to make for himself an easy subsistence, by appropriating to himself the product of the exertions of others. He is a constant attendant upon the Canvas-Back, and is extremely fond of the tender roots of the sea-cabbage on which the latter feeds. He does not dive for it himself, however, but watches the moment of the other’s rising to seize and carry off the favorite morsel before the Canvas Back has recovered from his immersion. The two species of birds, therefore, live in a state of perpetual war, in which the Widgeon usually comes off best; for though beaten in a fair battle, he more than atones for his discomfiture by his ingenuity and opportune approaches. The Widgeons are said to be very plenty at St. Domingo, sometimes perch on trees, feed in company, and have a sentinel on the look-out. They feed little during the day, but come forth from their hiding places in the evening, when they may be traced by their cry. They are very frequently sold in the market of Baltimore, and their flesh is so excellent as to command a good price.

The Dusky Duck, (_Anas Obscura_, WILSON.) is generally known along the sea coast of New Jersey and the neighboring country by the name of the Black Duck, being the most common and numerous of those of its tribe which inhabit the salt marshes. They are extremely shy during the day, and rise in great numbers on the most distant report of a gun, dispersing in every direction. In calm weather they fly so high as to be beyond the reach of shot but they may be brought down, by a concealed gunner in great numbers, when the wind blows hard. They are large heavy-bodied ducks, and generally esteemed.

Another of the family of the ducks much esteemed as game, is the Blue-Winged Teal, (_Anas Discors_, WILSON), a bird which ranges over the greater part of the American continent, breeding in the vicinity of the lakes of the St. Lawrence, and thence as far north as the Canadian fur countries, and migrating for food toward Massachusetts, in September, thence south to the muddy shores of the Delaware, and in the winter to the inundated rice-fields of the southern states. There great numbers are taken in traps, ingeniously contrived for the purpose. They feed chiefly on wild rice, in the north western lakes, and other aquatic plants. It is a shy and cautious bird. Along the shores of the Delaware, they sit on the mud, close to the edge of the water, so crowded together that the gunners often kill great numbers at a single discharge. When a flock is discovered in this situation, the practiced sportsman runs his boat ashore at some distance from them, and getting out, pushes her before him over the slippery mud, concealing himself all the while behind her; by this method he can sometimes approach within twenty yards of a flock, among which he generally makes great slaughter. They fly rapidly, and when they alight, drop down suddenly like the Snipe or Woodcock, among the reeds or on the mud.

Nuttall describes the plumage of the Blue-Winged Teal with his usual accuracy, as follows: The length of the Blue-Winged Teal is about eighteen inches; the folded wing seven inches three lines; the bill above one inch seven and a half lines; the tarsus one inch two lines. In the male, the upper surface of the head and under tail coverts are brownish-black; a broad white crescent from the forehead to the chin, bordered all round with black; sides of the head and adjoining half of the neck bright lavender-purple; base of the neck above, back, tertiaries, and tail coverts, brownish and blackish-green. The fore parts, including the shorter scapulars, margined and marked with semi-ovate pale-brown bars; longer scapulars longitudinally striped with blackish-green, Berlin-blue, and pale brown. Lesser wing coverts pure pale blue; greater coverts white, their bases brown; speculum dark-green; primaries, their coverts and the tail, liver-brown; sides of the rump, longer under wing coverts, and axillary feathers pure white. The under plumage pale reddish-orange, glossed with chestnut on the breast, and thickly marked throughout with round blackish spots, which, on the breast and tips of the long flank feathers, change to bars; bill bluish-black; feet yellow.

* * * * *

“OH! THAT A LITTLE COT WERE MINE!”

BY ROBERT F. GREELY.

Oh! that a little cot were mine,
Far down some gentle vale,
Where golden sunbeams ever shine,
And softly blows the gale.
No idle strife should break the spell
About its precincts thrown—
But peace and love should ever dwell
Within its shades, alone!

A streamlet should meander by
My humble cottage door,
Whose snow-white walls with many a vine
And shrub should be run o’er;
And there should be a little grot,
Half hidden from the view
By clust’ring leaves, and fragrant shrubs,
And flowers of every hue!

And, when the sun too brightly shone,
I’d seek its quiet shade,
To listen to the birds’ lithe song—
The music of the glade.
Or when, at eve, the crystal moon
Streamed down o’er bed and bower,
I’d take my lute, and with a song
Beguile the passing hour.

With one beloved and cherished form
To share my heart’s deep bliss,
I’d dwell contentedly, nor long
For greater happiness;
And when “Old Father Death” should come
To summon us away,
Together we would droop, and die—
Like flowers at close of day!

* * * * *

THE ISLETS OF THE GULF;

OR, ROSE BUDD.

Ay, now I am in Arden; the more fool
I; when I was at home I was in a better place; but
Travelers must be content. AS YOU LIKE IT.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “PILOT,” “RED ROVER,” “TWO ADMIRALS,” “WING-AND-WING,”
“MILES WALLINGFORD,” &c.

[Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1846, by
J. Fenimore Cooper, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court
of the United States, for the Northern District of New York.]

(_Continued from page 81._)