 | I. Rambles and reveries |  |
1. I.
It was towards the close of a cool but delightful autumn
evening, in Milan, the best part of which I had vainly
spent in searching for a friend. All at once it occurred
to me that he might beat the opera;—yet, thought I, F—
is very fastidious, and there is no particular attraction to-night.
Thus weighing the matter on my mind, I came
within sight of the Scala, and I was soon at the door of
Count G—'s box, where F— was generally to be found.
The orchestra was performing an interlude, and the foot-lights
beaming upon the beautiful classical groups depicted
on the drop. My friend was not visible, and I should
instantly have retreated, had not a side glance revealed
to me the figure of a young man, seated in the shadow of
the box curtains. Count G— was partial to Americans,
and I scrutinized the stranger, thinking it not impossible
of a Scotch student, with whom I had exchanged
a few words at our table-d'hote in the morning. It was
several minutes before I satisfied myself of his identity,
so different was his aspect and demeanor. He sat opposite
me, at the table, and was engaged in a most lively
conversation with a flaxen-haired daughter of Vienna,
who appeared delighted with the opportunity of reciting
the story of her travels to a new acquaintance, which she
persisted in doing, notwithstanding the obvious displeasure
of her father, a military character, who morosely devoured
his dinner beside her. Her auditor repaid the
lady's condescension with an account of the customs and
traditions of the Highlanders, in doing which the keen
air of his native hills seemed to inspire him; for from a
constrained and quiet, he gradually glided into a free and
earnest manner, and evolved enthusiasm enough to draw
sympathizing looks even from a coterie of native Italians,
his opposite neighbors. Frank Graham was now in a
totally different mood. He sat, braced in his seat, as if
under the influence of some nervous affection; his lips
when released from the restraint imposed upon them,
quivered incessantly, and—it might have been fancy—but
I thought I saw, in the dusky light, several hasty tears fall
upon the crimson drapery. There is something in the
deep emotion of a man of intellectual vigor—and such,
Graham's table-talk had proved him—which interests us
deeply. The very attempt to check the tide of feeling,
the struggle between the reason and the heart, the affective
and reflective powers, as a phrenologist would say,
to the Scala, and silently resolved to lead off my fellow-sojourner
from the memory of his disquietude, or draw
from him its cause, and, if possible, act the comforter.
With this view, I approached him carelessly, as if I had
not noticed his emotion, and proffered him the greetings
of the evening. He looked at me vacantly, a moment,
but soon rejoined with cordiality. Then rising and
drawing his cloak around him, he seized my hand and exclaimed—`Let
us leave this place, my friend.' There
was confidence implied in his tremulous tones, yet I was
half in doubt as to the propriety of alluding to his obvious
depression. It was a fine moonlight night, and we
walked side by side for several minutes, in silence.
`How long since you left home, Mr. Graham?' I inquired
by, way of beginning a colloquy. `Five minutes
ago, or thereabouts,' he replied huskily. I halted in surprise,
and gazed upon him in wonder. He stopped also,
and observing my astonishment continued in a clearer
voice, `Do not be alarmed my friend; I am perfectly
sane; literally speaking, I left Scotland five years since,
but just now your voice aroused me to a consciousness of
where and what I am. I have been carried back not only
to my country, but to my youth, to its richest hour, to
its most vivid epoch; you, by a word, dissolved the spell:
—there is the famous cathedral, this is Milan, and I am
nothing now but Frank Graham; but one memento of
my recent fairy land remains'—and he pointed to the
moon.
`Oh what mistaken kindness we sometimes practice!'
I thought to divert your attention. Forgive my
intrusion, for many, many injuries are fanciful and unworthy
the name, compared with that which drags a happy
idealist from his ærie in the heavens, down to life's common
and desert shore.'
`Say you so, my friend?' returned Graham, `then you
will not laugh at an incident in the life of an enthusiast.
Come, come,' and he drew my arm within his, and quickened
his pace. The window of my room at the Albergo,
reached to the floor, and overlooked a small garden; as
we entered, I placed the lamps in a distant corner, threw
open the curtains and admitted the full light of the moon.
`Now, Heaven grant,' said I, as Frank Graham esconced
himself in a corner of the sofa, and filled his glass
from a flask of red wine—`Heaven grant that your's is a
tale of love and chivalry, for such a scene ill befits an unromantic
legend.'—`It is, indeed, a glorious night; but
who ever heard, in these days, of a poor Scotch student
essaying at tournament or holy war, except in the field of
fiction, as here,'—and he lifted `Ivanhoe' from the
table—`yet remember that this lovely orb smiles equally
upon the love-vigils of the Highland chief, as upon those
of the knights of old, and her beams must seem as romantic
to you, while I improvise a chapter of my autobiography,
as they did to Rebecca the Jewess, daughter of
Isaac of York, when the wounded knight related, at the
same witching season, his adventures in Palestine.'
| I. Rambles and reveries | |