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1Author:  Simms William Gilmore 1806-1870Add
 Title:  Count Julian, or, The last days of the Goth  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: “It is in the mouths of many that Julian left his daughter, Cava, at the court of king Roderick, as he well knew the surpassing beauty of her charms, and as well the fierce passion of the king for such loveliness as hers. That he hath not erred in his expectations, is no less the rumor of the court. Cava, it is said, hath been distinguished by the king's eye; and the bruit is, that, though she hath lost in virtue, yet will the gain of Julian in high station be proportionate to her loss and great beyond his desire. Yet, though this be the speech of many who have integrity and speak not often idly, there are some who remember of the noble blood and proper pride of the Julian family, who, though they cannot gainsay the tidings of king Roderick's favor and of the frailty of the lady Cava, are yet unwilling to yield faith so readily to that which reports the willing pliance of Julian to his own dishonor. One of these, in his sorrow and his doubt, hath written these presents. He asks not for reply, since the deeds of the father, hereafter to be shown, will testify how far he hath been a party to the ruin of his child.” “Egiza—my lord, that should have been, had our hopes been blessed—farewell, farewell for ever. Hold me as one dead to thee, even if I be not dead to life. There is an impassable gulf between us. I cannot love thee, last I should debase thee by affections which can never more be hallowed. I cannot keep thy love, since such cannot belong or be given to those who are degraded. I cannot look upon thee, even if I live, since I feel my shame, and should dread to meet with favor in thy eyes. Yet, for the love which thou didst bear me, give me thy pity now; let thy prayers go up for one who has not so much sinned as suffered sin—whose weakness of body, not whose willingness of mind, has given her up—a most unhappy woman—to the brutal rage of a tyrant. I can speak no more. My cheeks, which have been cold and pale, like the unfeeling marble, now burn me as I write thee. I dare not say what I have suffered—thou wilt scarce dare to conceive it. Yet, think only that I I am lost to thee, to hope, to life, to myself, for ever, for ever, and thou wilt know cannot tell thee. Once more, my lord—my noble lord—once more I implore thy pity and thy prayers for the wretched
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