A Love Story, by a Bushman | Page 6

was a bachelor, and Græme
was his only pupil. The latter was soon inoculated with the classical
mania of his preceptor; and, as he grew up, it was quite a treat to hear
the pair discourse of Greeks and Romans. A stranger who had then
heard them would have imagined that Themistocles and Scipio
Africanus were stars of the present generation. When Græme was
nineteen, his uncle invited him to town for a month--a most unusual
proceeding. During this period he studied closely his nephew's
character. At the end of this term, Mr. Hargrave and his young charge
were on their way to the classical regions, where their fancy had been
so long straying. They explored France, and the northern parts of
Italy--came on the shores of the Adriatic--resided and secretly made
excavations near the amphitheatre of Polo--and finally reached the
Morea. Not a crag, valley, or brook, that they were not conversant with
before they left it. They at length tore themselves away; and found
themselves at the ancient Parthenope. It was at Pompeii Mr. Græme
first saw the beautiful Miss Vignoles, the Mrs. Glenallan of our story;
and, in a strange adventure with some Neapolitan guides, was of some
service to her party. They saw his designs of some tombs, and took the
trouble of drawing him out. The young man now for the first time
basked in the sweets of society; in a fortnight, to Mr. Hargrave's horror,
was rolling in its vortex; in a couple of months found himself indulging
in, and avowing, a hopeless passion; and in three, was once again in his
native land, falsely deeming that his peace of mind had fled for ever.
He was shortly, however, called upon to exert his energies. The death

of his uncle suddenly made him, to his very great surprise, one of the
wealthiest commoners of England. At this period he was quite
unknown. In a short time Mr. Hargrave and himself were lodged
luxuriously--were deep in the pursuit of science, literature, and the
belle arte--and on terms of friendship with the cleverest and most
original men of the day. Mr. Græme's occupations being sedentary, and
his habits very regular, he shortly found that his great wealth enabled
him, not only to indulge in every personal luxury at Rendlesham Park,
but to patronise largely every literary work of merit. In him the needy
man of genius found a friend, the man of wit a companion, and the
publisher a generous customer. He became famous for his house, his
library, his exclusive society. But he did not become spoilt by his
prosperity, and never neglected his old tutor.
Our party from Delmé were ushered into a large drawing-room, the
sole light of which was from an immense bow window, looking out on
the extensive lawn. The panes were of enormous size, and beautiful
specimens of classique plated glass. The only articles of furniture, were
some crimson ottomans which served to set off the splendid paintings;
and one table of the Florentine manufacture of pietra dura, on which
stood a carved bijou of Benvenuto Cellini's. Our party were early. They
were welcomed by Mr. Græme with great cordiality, and by Mr.
Hargrave with some embarrassment, for the tutor was still the bashful
man of former days. Mr. Græme's dress shamed these degenerate days
of black stock and loose trowser. Diamond buckles adorned his knees,
and fastened his shoes. His clear blue eye--the high polished
forehead--the deep lines of the countenance--revealed the man of
thought and intellect. The playful lip shewed he could yet appreciate a
flash of wit or spark of humour.
"Miss Delmé, you are looking at my paintings; let me show you my late
purchases. Observe this sweet Madonna, by Murillo! I prefer it to the
one in the Munich Gallery. It may not boast Titian's glow of colour, or
Raphael's grandeur of design,--in delicate angelic beauty, it may yield
to the delightful efforts of Guido's or Correggio's pencil,--but surely no
human conception can ever have more touchingly portrayed the
beauteous resigned mother. The infant, too! how inimitably blended is
the God-like serenity of the Saviour, with the fond and graceful
witcheries of the loving child! How little we know of the beauties of

the Spanish school! Would I could ransack their ancient monasteries,
and bring a few of them to light!
"You are a chess player! Pass not by this check-mate of Caravaggio's.
What undisguised triumph in one countenance! What a struggle to
repress nature's feelings in the other! Here is a Guido! sweet, as his
ever are! He may justly be styled the female laureat. What artist can
compete with him in delineating the blooming expression, or the tender,
but lighter, shades of female loveliness? who can pause between even
the Fornarina, and that divine effort,