Part 17 (1/2)

The poet tells us--

”Nessun maggior dolore Che ricordarsi del tempo felice Nella miseria.”

But it is not so. Where is he of the tribe of the unfortunate, who would not gladly barter the contemplation of present wretchedness, for the remembrance, clogged as it is by a thousand woes, of a time when joyous visions flitted across life's path?

Yes! though the contrast, the succeeding moment, should cut him to the soul.

But

”Joy's recollection is no longer joy, Whilst sorrow's memory is a sorrow still.”

Ah! there's the rub! yet, better to think it _was_ joy, than gaze unveiled on the cold reality around; than view the wreck--the grievous wreck--a few short years have made.

We care not,--and, alas! to such as we have in our mind's eye, these are the only cases allowed,--we care not! whether rapture has been succeeded by apathy, or whether the feelings continue as deeply enlisted--the thoughts as intensely concentrated;--but--in the servitude of despair!

And again we say--gentle memory! let us dream over our past joys! ay! and brood over our sorrows--undeserved--as in this hour of solitude, we may justly deem them.

Yes! let us again live over our days of suffering, and deem it wiser to steep our soul in tears, than let it freeze with an iced coating of cynic miscalled philosophy.

And shall adversity--that touchstone--softened as our hearts shall thus be--shall it pa.s.s over us, and improve us not?

No! it has purifying and cleansing qualities; and for us, it has them not in vain.

We are not dust, to be more defiled by water; nor are we as the turbid stream, which pa.s.sing over driven snow, becomes more impure by the close contact.

Thee, Mnemosyne! let us still adore; content rather to droop, fade, and die--martyrs to thee! than linger on as beasts of the forest, that know thee not. No hope may be ours to animate the future: let us still cling to thee, though thine influence sadden the past.

Away! we are on the placid sea! and Naples lies before us.

The sun had just risen from ocean's bed, attired in his robe of gold; as our travellers watched from the deck of their Sparonara, to catch the first view of the ”garden of the world,” as the Neapolitans fondly style their city,

A dim haze was abroad, the mists were slowly stealing up the mountains, as their vessel glided on; a light breeze anon filling its canvas, then dying away, and leaving the sails to flap against the loosened cordage.

On their left, extended the charming heights of Posilipo---the cla.s.sic site of Baia--Pozzuoli--Nisida--and Ischia, to be reverenced for its wine.

On their right, Capra's isle and Portici--and Vesuvius--wreathed in vapour, presented themselves.

As their vessel held on her way, Naples became visible--its turrets capt by a solitary cloud, which had not yet acknowledged the supremacy of the rising deity.

The effulgence of the city was dimmed, but it was lovely still,--as a diamond, obscured by a pa.s.sing breath; or woman's eye, humid from pity's tear.

”And this,” said Sir Henry, for it happened that his travels in Italy had not extended so far south, ”this is Naples! and this sea view the second finest in the world!”

”Which is the first?” said Acme, laughing, ”not in England, I trust; for we foreigners do not invest your island with beauty's attributes.”

”My dear Acme!” replied Sir Henry, somewhat gravely, ”I trust the day may arrive, when you will deem Delme Park, with its mansion bronzed by time--its many hillocks studded with ancient trees--its glistening brook, and h.o.a.ry gateways--its wooded avenue, where the rooks have built for generations--its verdant glades, where the deer have long found a home:--when you will consider all these, as forming as fair a prospect, as ever eye reposed on. But I did not allude at the time to England; but to the Turkish capital. George! I remember your glowing description of your trip in Mildmay's frigate, up the Dardanelles. What comparison would you make between the two scenes?”

”I confess to have been much disappointed,” replied George, ”in my first view of Stamboul; and even the beauty of the pa.s.sage to the Dardanelles, seemed to me to have been exaggerated. But what really _did_ strike me, as being the most varied, the most interesting scenery I had ever witnessed, was that which greeted us, on an excursion we made in a row boat, from the Bosphorus into the Black Sea.

”There all my floating conceptions of Oriental luxury, and of Moslem pomp, were more than realised.