CHAPTER I.
In a green valley of the Apennines, close to the sea-coast betweenGenoa and Spezzia, is a marine villa, that once belonged to theMalaspina family, in olden time the friends and patrons of Dante. Itis rather a fantastic pile, painted in fresco, but spacious, in goodrepair, and convenient. Although little more than a mile from Spezzia,a glimpse of the blue sea can only be caught from one particular spot,so completely is the land locked with hills, covered with groves ofchestnut and olive orchards. From the heights, however, you enjoymagnificent prospects of the most picturesque portion of the Italiancoast; a lofty, undulating, and wooded shore, with an infinite varietyof bays and jutting promontories; while the eye, wandering fromLeghorn on one side towards Genoa on the other, traces an almostuninterrupted line of hamlets and casinos, gardens and orchards,terraces of vines, and groves of olive. Beyond them, the broad andblue expanse of the midland ocean, glittering in the meridian blaze,or about to receive perhaps in its glowing waters the red orb ofsunset.
It was the month of May, in Italy, at least, the merry month of May,and Marmion Herbert came forth from the villa Malaspina, and throwinghimself on the turf, was soon lost in the volume of Plato which hebore with him. He did not move until in the course of an hour he wasroused by the arrival of servants, who brought seats and a table,when, looking up, he observed Lady Annabel and Venetia in the porticoof the villa. He rose to greet them, and gave his arm to his wife.
'Spring in the Apennines, my Annabel,' said Herbert, 'is a happycombination. I am more in love each day with this residence. Thesituation is so sheltered, the air so soft and pure, the spot sotranquil, and the season so delicious, that it realises all my romanceof retirement. As for you, I never saw you look so well; and as forVenetia, I can scarcely believe this rosy nymph could have been ourpale-eyed girl, who cost us such anxiety!'
'Our breakfast is not ready. Let us walk to our sea view,' said LadyAnnabel. 'Give me your book to carry, Marmion.'
'There let the philosopher repose,' said Herbert, throwing the volumeon the turf. 'Plato dreamed of what I enjoy.'
'And of what did Plato dream, papa?' said Venetia.
'He dreamed of love, child.'
Venetia took her father's disengaged arm.
They had now arrived at their sea view, a glimpse of the Mediterraneanbetween two tall crags.
'A sail in the offing,' said Herbert. 'How that solitary sail tells,Annabel!'
'I feel the sea breeze, mother. Does not it remind you of Weymouth?'said Venetia.
'Ah! Marmion,' said Lady Annabel, 'I would that you could see Mashamonce more. He is the only friend that I regret.'
'He prospers, Annabel; let that be our consolation: I have at leastnot injured him.'
They turned their steps; their breakfast was now prepared. The sun hadrisen above the hill beneath whose shade they rested, and the oppositeside of the valley sparkled in light. It was a cheerful scene. 'I havea passion for living in the air,' said Herbert; 'I always envied theshepherds in Don Quixote. One of my youthful dreams was living amongmountains of rosemary, and drinking only goat's milk. After breakfastI will read you Don Quixote's description of the golden age. I haveoften read it until the tears came into my eyes.'
'We must fancy ourselves in Spain,' said Lady Annabel; 'it is notdifficult in this wild green valley; and if we have not rosemary, wehave scents as sweet. Nature is our garden here, Venetia; and I do notenvy even the statues and cypresses of our villa of the lake.'
'We must make a pilgrimage some day to the Maggiore, Annabel,' saidHerbert. 'It is hallowed ground to me now.'
Their meal was finished, the servants brought their work, and books,and drawings; and Herbert, resuming his natural couch, re-opened hisPlato, but Venetia ran into the villa, and returned with a volume.'You must read us the golden age, papa,' she said, as she offered him,with a smile, his favourite Don Quixote.
'You must fancy the Don looking earnestly upon a handful of acorns,'said Herbert, opening the book, 'while he exclaims, "O happy age!which our first parents called the age of gold! not because gold, somuch adored in this iron age, was then easily purchased, but becausethose two fatal words, _meum_ and _tuum_, were distinctions unknown tothe people of those fortunate times; for all things were in common inthat holy age: men, for their sustenance, needed only to lift theirhands, and take it from the sturdy oak, whose spreading arms liberallyinvited them to gather the wholesome savoury fruit; while the clearsprings, and silver rivulets, with luxuriant plenty, afforded themtheir pure refreshing water. In hollow trees, and in the cleftsof rocks, the labouring and industrious bees erected their littlecommonwealths, that men might reap with pleasure and with ease thesweet and fertile harvest of their toils, The tough and strenuouscork-trees did, of themselves, and without other art than their nativeliberality, dismiss and impart their broad light bark, which served tocover those lowly huts, propped up with rough-hewn stakes, that werefirst built as a shelter against the inclemencies of the air. All thenwas union, all peace, all love and friendship in the world. As yet norude ploughshare presumed with violence to pry into the pious bowelsof our mother earth, for she without compulsion kindly yielded fromevery part of her fruitful and spacious bosom, whatever might at oncesatisfy, sustain, and indulge her frugal children. Then was the timewhen innocent, beautiful young sheperdesses went tripping over thehills and vales; their lovely hair sometimes plaited, sometimes looseand flowing, clad in no other vestment but what the modesty of naturemight require. The Tyrian dye, the rich glossy hue of silk, martyredand dissembled into every colour, which are now esteemed so fine andmagnificent, were unknown to the innocent simplicity of that age; yet,bedecked with more becoming leaves and flowers, they outshone theproudest of the vaindressing ladies of our times, arrayed in the mostmagnificent garbs and all the most sumptuous adornings which idlenessand luxury have taught succeeding pride. Lovers then expressed thepassion of their souls in the unaffected language of the heart, withthe native plainness and sincerity in which they were conceived, anddivested of all that artificial contexture which enervates what itlabours to enforce. Imposture, deceit, and malice had not yet creptin, and imposed themselves unbribed upon mankind in the disguise oftruth: justice, unbiassed either by favour or interest, which now sofatally pervert it, was equally and impartially dispensed; nor was thejudge's fancy law, for then there were neither judges nor causes to bejudged. The modest maid might then walk alone. But, in this degenerateage, fraud and a legion of ills infecting the world, no virtue can besafe, no honour be secure; while wanton desires, diffused into thehearts of men, corrupt the strictest watches and the closest retreats,which, though as intricate, and unknown as the labyrinth of Crete,are no security for chastity. Thus, that primitive innocence beingvanished, the oppression daily prevailing, there was a necessityto oppose the torrent of violence; for which reason the order ofknighthood errant was instituted, to defend the honour of virgins,protect widows, relieve orphans, and assist all that are distressed.Now I myself am one of this order, honest friends and though allpeople are obliged by the law of nature to be kind to persons of mycharacter, yet since you, without knowing anything of this obligation,have so generously entertained me, I ought to pay you my utmostacknowledgment, and accordingly return you my most hearty thanks."
'There,' said Herbert, as he closed the book. 'In my opinion, DonQuixote was the best man that ever lived.'
'But he did not ever live,' said Lady Annabel, smiling.
'He lives to us,' said Herbert. 'He is the same to this age as if hehad absolutely wandered over the plains of Castile and watched in theSierra Morena. We cannot, indeed, find his tomb; but he has left ushis great example. In his hero, Cervantes has given us the pictureof a great and benevolent philosopher, and in his Sancho, a completepersonification of the world, selfish and cunning, and yet overawedby the genius that he cannot comprehend: alive to all the materialinterests of existence, yet sighing after the ideal; securing his fouryoung foals of the she-ass, yet indulging in dreams of empire.'
/> 'But what do you think of the assault on the windmills, Marmion?' saidLady Annabel.
'In the outset of his adventures, as in the outset of our lives, hewas misled by his enthusiasm,' replied Herbert, 'without which, afterall, we can do nothing. But the result is, Don Quixote was a redresserof wrongs, and therefore the world esteemed him mad.'
In this vein, now conversing, now occupied with their pursuits, andoccasionally listening to some passage which Herbert called to theirattention, and which ever served as the occasion for some criticalremarks, always as striking from their originality as they were happyin their expression, the freshness of the morning disappeared; the sunnow crowned the valley with his meridian beam, and they re-entered thevilla. The ladies returned to their cool saloon, and Herbert to hisstudy.
It was there he amused himself by composing the following lines:
SPRING IN THE APENNINES.
I.
Spring in the Apennine now holds her court Within an amphitheatre of hills, Clothed with the blooming chestnut; musical With murmuring pines, waving their light green cones Like youthful Bacchants; while the dewy grass, The myrtle and the mountain violet, Blend their rich odours with the fragrant trees, And sweeten the soft air. Above us spreads The purple sky, bright with the unseen sun The hills yet screen, although the golden beam Touches the topmost boughs, and tints with light The grey and sparkling crags. The breath of morn Still lingers in the valley; but the bee With restless passion hovers on the wing, Waiting the opening flower, of whose embrace The sun shall be the signal. Poised in air, The winged minstrel of the liquid dawn, The lark, pours forth his lyric, and responds To the fresh chorus of the sylvan doves, The stir of branches and the fall of streams, The harmonies of nature!
II
Gentle Spring! Once more, oh, yes! once more I feel thy breath, And charm of renovation! To the sky Thou bringest light, and to the glowing earth A garb of grace: but sweeter than the sky That hath no cloud, and sweeter than the earth With all its pageantry, the peerless boon Thou bearest to me, a temper like thine own; A springlike spirit, beautiful and glad! Long years, long years of suffering, and of thought Deeper than woe, had dimmed the eager eye Once quick to catch thy brightness, and the ear That lingered on thy music, the harsh world Had jarred. The freshness of my life was gone, And hope no more an omen in thy bloom Found of a fertile future! There are minds, Like lands, but with one season, and that drear Mine was eternal winter!
III.
A dark dream Of hearts estranged, and of an Eden lost Entranced my being; one absorbing thought Which, if not torture, was a dull despair That agony were light to. But while sad Within the desert of my life I roamed, And no sweet springs of love gushed for to greet My wearied heart, behold two spirits came Floating in light, seraphic ministers, The semblance of whose splendour on me fell As on some dusky stream the matin ray, Touching the gloomy waters with its life. And both were fond, and one was merciful! And to my home long forfeited they bore My vagrant spirit, and the gentle hearth. I reckless fled, received me with its shade And pleasant refuge. And our softened hearts Were like the twilight, when our very bliss Calls tears to soothe our rapture; as the stars Steal forth, then shining smiles their trembling ray Mixed with our tenderness; and love was there In all his manifold forms; the sweet embrace, And thrilling pressure of the gentle hand, And silence speaking with the melting eye!
IV.
And now again I feel thy breath, O spring! And now the seal hath fallen from my gaze, And thy wild music in my ready ear Finds a quick echo! The discordant world Mars not thy melodies; thy blossoms now Are emblems of my heart; and through my veins The flow of youthful feeling, long pent up, Glides like thy sunny streams! In this fair scene, On forms still fairer I my blessing pour; On her the beautiful, the wise, the good, Who learnt the sweetest lesson to forgive; And on the bright-eyed daughter of our love, Who soothed a mother, and a father saved!